


The Storm, the Calm

by Smutnug



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Bad Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fade Sex, Feels, Gratuitous Smut, Gratuitous use of song lyrics, Heartbreak, Hell, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, Loss of Virginity, Love Triangles, Mild Kink, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Smungst, Solabullavellan, Vaginal Sex, Wicked Grace, solavellan hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-25 18:39:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 28,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10770096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smutnug/pseuds/Smutnug
Summary: Rhia Lavellan explores Solavellan hell and finds solace (and Solas) in unexpected places. Takes place during the events of Inquisition and Trespasser, moooostly canon, a lot of dialogue lifted from the game but hopefully in a good way.Some chapters NSFW, some more NSFW than others.





	1. Storm

He saw her standing in the sudden downpour, palms open, long black hair slick down her back and her small face alive with joy beneath the dark red vallaslin. She was barefoot, clad only in a nightshirt that was plastered to her body as the rain swirled around her, wet grass clinging to her bare legs and her smiling lips parted and upraised as if awaiting a lover’s kiss.

She had found him in the Fade once before, the ancient magic branded on her hand allowing her an ease of passage in the dream realm that by rights she should not possess, unprecedented in one who lacked in intrinsic magic such as she. That time he had summoned her, guided her and had still been surprised when he saw her there in the gently swirling snow of Haven as it appeared in her memories.

But now she intruded on his dreaming, appearing unbidden and at the same time shaping the Fade around her, bringing with her the warm rain and the green grass underfoot where moments earlier he had wandered on crisp snow.

She opened her eyes, dark and shining, and seemed surprised to see him there. She laughed and cried “Solas!” arms thrown wide to show him the falling water with the simple delight of a child.

“Inquisitor, how came you here?”

She smiled at him, confused. “To the garden?” And looking around he saw that they indeed stood in the gardens at Skyhold, water shaking the autumnal leaves above and the winding stone paths glistening with reflected torchlight, the air fragrant with herbs and the smell of damp earth.

“We are in the Fade, da’len”, he replied, for a moment half doubting himself. Her eyes widened and she looked around her in wonder.

“The Fade? Well, Solas”, and she laughed again, the twinkle of mischief in her eyes, “we must stop meeting like this.”

She had him, as usual, at a disadvantage. Even here in the dreaming world, his domain, her brown eyes mocked him and he felt the tiniest fissures start to form in his cool resolve. For all his long years wandering, watching, this one remained an enigma to him, her whims unpredictable and mood changeable, her thoughts inscrutable.

Solas made no secret of his disdain for the Dalish, their insular, suspicious nature and the way they blindly clung to their old ways, the customs they so fiercely preserved a mockery of their true heritage. Rhia had lived amongst the clans all her life, her interaction with the outside world limited to the merchants and traders of the Free Marches.

And yet somehow she slipped into the role of Inquisitor like a fish into a stream. She seemed to constantly reshape herself, shifting into the vocabulary and mannerisms of those around her with the ease and grace of a dancer, and at times it seemed he must run to keep pace with her chameleon changes.

Her very manner of speech was jarring, the lilting tones of the Dalish clans undetectable beneath the flawless noble accent she affected. Her initial hostility had been quickly discarded in favour of an easy diplomacy, an uncanny talent for intrigue existing side by side with an attention to detail in her tasks, a measured wisdom in her judgements, a disarming concern for even the lowest of her followers.

And her mind... as closely as she guarded her true self from those around her, he detected a curiosity in her, a thirst for learning and an intellect that proved surprisingly flexible, old prejudices examined and readily discarded in the light of new knowledge. Her insight was discomfiting - more than once her questions dug too close to his own truths, and even as he dodged her he had the distinct impression that she sensed his evasion, was coolly amused by it.

She herself was frequently dishonest, he knew, he had watched her more than once as she told her companions what they wanted to hear, her true thoughts remaining a secret to all but herself. Pressed for facts about herself she would lie, not maliciously, but as if challenging those closest to her to pick apart her deceptions and find the truth buried underneath.

For as much as she strove to keep everyone at a distance he sensed that she longed to be known, truly known.

Now she extended her hands to him, smiling, her eyes issuing a challenge. And once more against his better judgement he followed her lead. He had unwisely encouraged her first clumsy flirtations, and by the time he felt his carefully-built defenses crumbling she had him trapped, returning her impulsive kiss with a passion that shook him in its sincerity.

Thoughtless, careless he had pulled her hips against his, thigh pressing hard between her legs as he bent her backwards. Curious spirits had pressed around them in the Fade as he pressed his tongue into her eager mouth, and he felt them stir now at the memory.

She took his hands in hers and lifted her face once more to the rain before smiling at him, twining her fingers through his. He kept his face still and solemn, impassive, but her eyes danced, mocking his severity.

He shook his head, denying his weakness. This was wrong. She was a child, less than a child, a mere shadow of an elf, an echo of a people lost. But beneath her soaked nightshirt was a body that was anything but childish, slender in the manner of these new elves but unmistakably womanly, substantial, the reality of her apparent to him even as he knew their physical bodies were lost in slumber.

And somehow he was kissing her, enfolding her, her hands warm against his chilled skin as they slid beneath his wet tunic and onto the small of his back. He rested his hands on the curve of her buttocks as their tongues twirled and circled each other, rain mingling with their saliva. He grabbed her and lifted her into him, taking her lower lip between his teeth and relishing in her soft moan.

Soon they were kneeling on the damp grass, peeling away each other's saturated clothing until they were bare, the world reduced to the press of wet skin, water trickling down their bodies as their mouths and hands explored each other hungrily. Then she was astride him, he buried in her, tracing damp kisses along her jaw and down her throat as she raised her face to the rain, rocking against him until they came undone, shuddering, clutching each other as the trees shook and the storm crashed around them, a voice he barely recognised as his own crying “Ar lath ma, vhenan!” as he awoke with a start, slumped across his desk. And far away on the Storm Coast she opened her eyes, heart hammering, listened to the steady drumming of the rain on canvas.

 


	2. Spirit

_If you must mourn, my love_

  
_Mourn with the moon and the stars up above_

 

_If you must mourn_

  
_Don't do it alone_

 

\- Keaton Henson, _You_

 

Cole drums his feet against the stone wall, hums to himself, tuneless. Beneath the brim of his hat he watches her emerge from the armoury, stop to exchange words with Cassandra, pause outside the tavern as she catches the melody of a song she likes drifting from the window. She is attentive, cheerful, can feel their eyes on her always, their Inquisitor, their Herald.

_Bare feet, a basket, handfuls of fragrant elfroot gathered from the forest floor, freedom from the clan always close around her. She likes to be alone._

He tried planting elfroot by the stairs, but it died. It grows in the gardens but she only likes it there at night, when the people are gone. Rain, a dream, lips on hers.  _Ar lath ma._

She returned from the Exalted Plains carrying new sorrows. Ancient deaths, history hurting, a new memory sharp like singed paper.

His voice, an unbearable tenderness. Fragments, floating. _Dareth shiral_. Then lightning, fire, an open book, a hand outstretched in the dust, eyes, sightless, staring. She could have stopped him, she should have stopped him. They were frightened, they knew no better. And he was gone, gone, lost to her even in dreams. Her fault?

New hurts, layered on the old.

_Blue lips, bleeding, a baby crying, a woman on the forest floor. She doesn't remember it, but she carries the picture, picks at the ragged edges. A father, a First, fled. The clan’s pity. It burns, like the vallaslin, but deeper._

The people of Skyhold wear at her, clinging, clutching, but their wonder, their worship is easier to carry than the pity of her clan, even if the old guilt still burns inside her. Their kindness ate at her soul, their loving acceptance suffocated her even as she shut them out, shy, sullen. She won't go back.

He watches her and is troubled.

Now she pauses on the stairs, her heart skips. _He returns_. His shoulders are bowed, his steps weary. She greets him, hands by her side, not holding, not hindering, he might slip away again if she startles him. He's always withdrawing, warmth then cold. They dance around each other, deny.

"The next time you have to mourn, you don't need to be alone."

"It's been so long since I could trust someone."

"I know." She means, _me too._

"I'll work on it. And thank you."

And she watches him climb the stairs away from her, trapped by love and fear and scorn. For all his wit, his wisdom, his arrogance, this man doesn't know her. Their Inquisitor, flawed, fearful, fraudulent. If he knew her, he wouldn't come back.

Cole drums his feet on the wall and watches her. Sharp, shiny, scraping edges. A green glow, a blessed blemish, pain around her like armour.

He can't fix this hurt.


	3. Sleep

_If you must fight_

 

_Fight with yourself and your thoughts in the night_

 

\- Keaton Henson, _You_

 

_Do you know who first leapt to arms? Our workers. They were so proud of our cause._

Rhia lay clothed on the huge bed, arms wrapped tightly around herself, eyes open to the dark, unsleeping. Her breaths were shallow. She felt she needed more air, but breathing in deeply was somehow uncomfortable, a weight on her chest constricting her lungs.

They would fall. All who followed her would fall.

Sometimes she would stand on her balcony overlooking the snow-capped mountains and wonder how it would feel to hop up and over the balustrade, plummet down onto the rocks. It would be the work of seconds. They could find a new Inquisitor, someone better equipped to lead...Cassandra, maybe. There would be more paperwork than the Seeker was used to, but she’d still get plenty of chances to hit things.

At times she could almost swear she had jumped, felt the lurch of her stomach and the rush of cold wind, but she would open her eyes to find herself still standing on the balcony. And then she would clench her hand, feel the prickling, pins-and-needles sensation that never entirely went away. The anchor, aptly named because it kept her stuck to this world, this Inquisition. Bound to lead when she had not the skill nor the inclination to do so.

Her room. It was still a foreign concept to her, a room of her own, if a welcome one. Sleep evaded her, but here in her quarters she could at least escape the constant scrutiny, the fear that her mask might slip and they would see their blessed Herald for what she really was.

And what was she? A joke. A hunter, a trader, at one-and-twenty practically still a child. They had handed her the power of life and death over a continent, and she was fucking _terrified_. But reflected in their faces she saw a leader, a symbol of hope. Even after Haven.

_So much screaming…so many people turned to ash._

She dug her fingernails into the anchor, felt an answering shock travel up her wrist. She liked to torment it sometimes, see how it felt to expose it to cold, heat, rough, sharp. It was a petty vengeance and a pain she could control. She had idly wondered if she could dig it out somehow, would it still be able to close rifts? What if she cut her whole hand off? She imagined striding into the war room, presenting them her hand on a platter, the genteel disgust on poor Josie’s face. Perhaps not.

With an effort she sat up, smoothed her hair. There would be no sleep for her yet.

 

The grand hall was empty, lit dimly by a scatter of torches on the wall and the great braziers flanking the dais. She skipped up the stairs, jumped lightly onto the throne and back down again, a childish rebellion. Perhaps she could visit the undercroft, tinker with armour designs. Better steer clear of Dagna’s things though, oh it looked like a mess in there but the chirpy dwarf knew the location of all her arcane bits and pieces and it wouldn’t do to disrupt her delicate system.

Or she could go to _his_ room. He was most likely in bed at this hour, but she felt a sudden need to be surrounded by his things, to run her fingers over the bold murals adorning his walls, sit in his chair and feel the polished wood beneath her hands, breathe in the faint scent of dust and incense that was his space.

Candlelight flickered behind the door. He reclined in his chair, a heavy book open on his lap, but when he saw her he laid it on the desk and stood, smoothly.

“Lethallan,” he said quietly, his lips curving in a smile, eyes soft.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, breaking free of his gaze to examine the brightly patterned rug.

“Your presence is never an interruption.”

Her thoughts went unbidden to that night, their dreaming bodies entwined in the rain. She had wondered if it was nothing more than a vivid dream, but when she saw him again the truth of it was written in his eyes, the twitch of his mouth, the momentary flush on his face. She delighted to see the break, however slight, in his carefully maintained composure.

But this was not the time for that conversation. She crossed the room and lowered herself onto the couch, and he sat back down, his eyes on her, inscrutable.

“How can I help?”

She lay down on her side and swung her legs up, resting her cheek on her joined hands.

_You want to help? Take this from me. Take it all away and let me sleep. Let me be me, whoever that is. Let me rest._

Instead she said, “I’d like to hear more about your journeys in the Fade.” The last word brought an unwelcome blush to her cheeks.

Again, a smile.  “I would be happy to share it with you.” She suspected he loved to have an audience, someone who showed an interest in his tales. “What would you like me to tell you of?”

She considered. “Tell me about the old memories you found.”

He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, his words grown soft with recollection.

“I saw a dwarf emerge into the light of day and shield his eyes against the sun, the first time he had seen it. Tears were streaming down his face...”

She smiled and let the soft rhythm of his voice ebb and flow around her, her eyes drifting closed.

  
When she woke it was to the filtered glow of daylight, a soft blanket tucked around her and her boots lined up carefully on the floor.


	4. Sighs

_If you must wait_

 

_Wait for them here in my arms as I shake_

 

\- Keaton Henson, _You_

 

“You are not what I expected.”

They stood on her balcony, the last rays of the sun casting a warm glow over Skyhold. Solas was serious, intense, and she felt a stirring of unease. She had just dropped by to see him, hadn’t expected him to lead her up here and ask such questions, to look at her as if he were weighing her very soul.

She was flippant, trying to lighten the tone. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He didn’t smile. “It's not disappointing, it's…” He sighed, seemed to cast about for the right words. "Most people are predictable. You have shown subtlety in your actions. A wisdom that goes against everything I expected.”

Wisdom? Her first instinct was to scoff, but he raised his eyes to hers and she saw confusion, sorrow. Fear? “If the Dalish could raise someone with a spirit like yours...have I misjudged them?”

Taken aback, she thought of her guarded, insular race. Even in her own clan, relatively tolerant of outsiders, the people’s concerns were petty, small, their world deliberately narrow. They had not prepared her for this burden. When she spoke it was with unintended vehemence. “The Dalish didn't make me like this. The decisions were mine.”

He relaxed visibly. “Yes. You are wise to give yourself that due. Although the Dalish in their fashion may still have guided you. Perhaps that is it. Yes, it must be.” He shifted, still troubled. “Most people act with so little understanding of the world.” He looked at her and his face was soft. “But not you.”

She found she couldn’t look away, although the atmosphere between them had grown charged, dangerous. Suddenly she felt her words were stones, and the ripples they created threatened to topple cities.

“So what does this mean, Solas?”

“It means I have not forgotten the kiss.”

His voice wove soft tendrils around her, into her, winding around her heart and snaking warmth through her veins.

“Good.”

She closed the space between them, hands clasped behind her back, face raised to him, a challenge. He paused, wanting. She saw the war rage behind his eyes as he shook his head a fraction, turned to leave.

Frightened as she sensed him slipping away once more, she took hold of his arm. “Don’t go.” It was gentle, a plea.

He still faced away from her. “It would be kinder in the long run.” She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could question his meaning he turned back, a shining intensity in his eyes. “But losing you would…”

He kissed her.

This time it was real. His lips soft on hers then insistent, demanding, his tongue seeking her own and his arms warm around her waist. It was over soon, too soon. He pulled back.

“Ar lath, ma vhenan.”

_I love you, my heart._

She watched him leave, willed him back but once more he was gone from her.

 

Rhia remained in her room as the evening fell, putting her signature to a thick stack of letters. She would pause occasionally, close her eyes and run light fingers over her lips before returning to her task. Soon it was fully dark outside and her eyesight was blurred, her hand cramping.

She stoked the fire, then shed her tunic, leggings and smallclothes and donned her nightshirt. Finally she slipped beneath the covers and lay awake, her mind racing, her fingers touching her lips, remembering him there.

The torches had guttered out and the room was lit only by the flickering fire before she heard her door click open, a creak and a soft thud as it was closed. Light footsteps climbed the stairs, two at a time. Then he was standing by her bed, his features in shadow as he looked down at her.

They were both silent, and after a moment she shifted, sliding over to make space for him. He untied his belt and pulled his tunic up and over his head, firelight dancing orange on his pale skin.  Soon, naked, he slid beneath the covers.

For an eternity they lay facing each other, their breath sounding obscenely loud in the darkened room. Then his hand found her thigh and, the spell broken, she slipped her arms around his shoulders and drew him into a kiss, her body pressing hungrily into his. He groaned, pulling her closer, and his hand slid under her nightshirt, stroking the curve of her hip. The sudden intensity of her response frightened her. She wanted to be with him, in him, part of him. The thin nightshirt was all at once unbearable and she squirmed until it was off, discarded, and she could press the length of her body against his naked skin. His hands tangled in her dark hair as he bent to kiss her throat, nuzzling her jaw in a way that sent shivers straight to her groin, a moan breaking forth from her lips and making him smile against her neck.

Gently he moved her onto her back and his hands ran a slow sweep down her body, dancing over her shoulders, breasts, hips, thighs. He lowered his mouth to her breast and she gasped as he drew a cold nipple into his warm, wet mouth, flicking his tongue against her before moving his attention to the other breast, her back arching of its own accord. Damp warmth blossomed between her legs.

Impatient, she drew him up to kiss her mouth again, wrapped her slender legs around him. Sensing her unspoken need he shifted his weight, guided himself to her entrance.

She tensed, cried out in pain.

He froze, pulling away from her, and she felt the flush of mortification spreading to her face.

“You’re...but vhenan, we -”

She was silent, her face turned from him as his comprehension dawned. Their previous encounter had been wild, unbridled, almost feral. In the rain, in the garden. In the Fade.

A tear of shame and anger escaped her, spilled hot on the cool pillow. Here and now, her physical body had been found wanting. He knew her for what she was, a stupid girl playing at being a woman, inexperienced and shut tightly against him. Solas already thought her half a child. He couldn't possibly want her now.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Go, if you want.”

He was silent for the longest time. She couldn’t bring herself to look at his face, even had the light allowed her to see his expression. She fought her tears back, forced herself to icy calm. The bedclothes were still down around her waist and she moved to pull them up, regain some semblance of dignity.

His hand closed over hers. “Wait, da’len.”

She lay still as he slid down the bed, adjusting the sheets around her. Warm hands rested above her knees, eased them apart. She felt his breath on the inside of her thighs for just a second before he pressed a kiss against her folds, then she gasped as his tongue teased her open.

Her shame was forgotten as he fell into a hypnotic rhythm, his tongue and lips dancing over her sensitive flesh and making her shake beneath him. He was soft, agonisingly gentle, and she felt herself floating, lost, drenched and drowning. A voice cried his name again and again - hers? He kept his mouth on her when she came, easing her down as small aftershocks ran through her, firm hands holding her hips as she shuddered and whimpered softly.

She lay still, breath heaving, until she could speak again. “You’ve done that before.”

“Yes.”

“Well then. If you ever want to do it again, you know where to find me.”

He chuckled softly. “First, vhenan, we have other matters to see to.”

Limbs leaden, she allowed him to shift her, positioning himself above her as he eased gently into her, and this time her body did not resist him. His movements were slow, careful, and she sensed him holding back, his body trembling slightly beneath her hands as he moved inside her, the full ache of his presence giving way to a building desire.

She couldn't have said how much time passed, lost in the sweet agony of the moment, her breaths coming shallow and irregular, his voice whispering in her ear, soft words of love and encouragement. A sudden climax shook her and she dug her fingers into his shoulders, her face buried in his neck and his hot skin muffling her cry. Moments later he came with a low gasp of relief, spilling himself inside her.

His breath ragged, he kissed her and slid softly from her, gathering her against him and stroking her hair. “Vhenan.”

Then with a sigh he laid her down and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, fumbling on the floor for his clothes.

He couldn’t know what it cost her to utter the words. “Solas. Don’t go.”

He turned, surprised. She sat up, bare to the waist, black hair spilling over her shoulders and her hand outstretched, begging. “Don’t,” she repeated.

With a smile he slid back under the covers and folded himself around her, her face buried against his neck. “I’m here, vhenan. Ar lath ma.”


	5. Sunshine

Morning creeps in and she’s half surprised to find him next to her, as if it might have been another dream. They have drifted apart in the night and he lies on his back, snoring softly. Solas, snoring! She can’t help but smile. She wonders if he’s in the Fade now, if he’s exploring Skyhold, what he might find there. If she asks, will he tell her?

It’s a strange new feeling, waking up with someone, naked beneath the sheets, a warm wet ache between her legs. She wonders how long it’s been for him, if his apostate life before the Inquisition lent itself to these sorts of encounters, if he’s had a succession of lovers, or one or two great loves. She’s no expert, but he seems practiced.

Not wanting to disturb his dreams, she props her chin on one hand, watches the slow rise and fall of his chest until the first rays of sunshine creep onto his face and his eyes slowly flutter open.

 

His eyes protest as the sun hits them and he shifts away from the bright intrusion. An unfamiliar ceiling comes into focus, a bed that seems strangely soft and wide, a large and well-appointed room. Her room.

So much for self-control.

He looks at her now, her hair wild from sleep, the sheet tucked modestly around her as she regards him with those bright brown eyes. He remembers last night, her pained cry, the panic that nearly sent him running from her, his mind crying _wrong, wrong, this is wrong._

It was her shame that brought him undone in the end, her broken resignation. He had to fix it, and now he’s doomed them both.

But she’s smiling, and he must smile back. She’s more fragile than he thought, he wonders if he can extract himself now without breaking her, for extract himself he must.

But she’s here and she’s so soft, so warm, so beautiful. His hand reaches out and his fingers tangle in her dark locks, he’s bringing her close and kissing her warm lips and he feels his arousal building, his body betraying him again.

 

She could kiss him for days. Soft with sleep they press against each other and their mouths are gentle, tasting, testing. He runs a hand down her spine and she shivers, her hand snaking around the back of his neck. The gesture presses her breasts against him and he breaks the kiss, looks at her with eyes dark with desire.

She has him, he’s not going to run now, he wants this as much as she does, maybe even more. It’s warm in the sunshine and he pulls the sheet back, baring their bodies to the daylight.

He’s lean, lithe, surprisingly muscular. There’s a coiled energy in him like a wild animal. There's a slight down on his chest and a darker line of hair running down to his cock. She’s seen one before, the Dalish aren’t prudish about such things and she’s bathed with the other youngsters of the clan often enough. But not so close, and never in a state of such...excitement. It holds an obscene fascination for her, and she reaches out and wraps her fingers around it, drawing a low moan from Solas and making it twitch in her hand. She strokes it experimentally, smiles when he groans and grabs her wrist, eyes locked on hers.

 

She’s going to kill him. He’s going to explode. Wait, no, maybe he is. That would be beyond awkward. He prises her fingers from him, then to show her she hasn’t offended there seems to be little choice but to pin her underneath him and kiss her some more, his hands entwined in hers and his erection hard against her thigh. He kneels back and looks at her, washed in sunlight.

Aeons in the Fade haven’t shown him anything as beautiful as the slight girl before him, the black hair framing her delicate face, lips the pink of ripening strawberries, eyes dark and bright, pale skin blemished with small scars and bruises, the thatch of dark, curling hair at the juncture of her thighs. He could bury his face in there again now, hear her whimper and scream his name.

He wonders if she’s sore from their efforts last night? She must be, but she’s looking up at him with desire in her face, her beautiful face marred by the red vallaslin.

He shakes his head, suddenly pained, recalling the burden of his responsibility. She catches the gesture and is suddenly up and kneeling before him, mouth capturing his, breasts brushing his chest as she wraps her small strong arms around his neck.

 

 _Oh no you don’t._ He’s not doing this to her, not now. She’s got no time for his regrets. And if they’re still doing this, this push and pull, this dance, she’s going to take him now while she can have him.

She wraps her legs around his waist, takes him in her hand again and he slips inside her with a gasp, his arms encircling her. He draws back and his eyes are on hers as they move in unison, hips finding an easy rhythm, his hand moving to cup her breast and although she wants to keep looking at his face her eyes close as he kneads her in his hand, his thumb circling her nipple. His other hand slips between them and she cries out, pushing desperately against him.

 

He can’t take his eyes off her face, her mouth parted with desire, her dark lashes fluttering, her beautiful neck bared as her head hangs back, dark hair cascading behind her. He takes his hand from her breast and splays it on the small of her back, driving her onto him as his other hand explores the warm wetness between them.

He watches her face as she comes, crying out, wordless. And seconds later he bucks into her, body shuddering, his forehead pressed against hers as they ride out the force of their orgasm.

 

She leans back, silently requests a kiss and he obliges, mouth warm and sliding, trailing from her lips to rest against her neck. He’s covered in a sheen of sweat, his breathing heavy, his hands clutching her against him. She twines her arms around his neck, smiling, revels in the feeling of him still filling her. She’s satisfied.

  
_No,_ he chants silently. _No, no, no. This is wrong._


	6. Sand

Soon their work for the Inquisition took them far west to the Hissing Wastes, chasing reports of Venatori and the ever-present fade rifts spewing demons into the Orlesian desert. They looked out over the vast plains, the only sign of life the distant flicker of campfires. Likely Venatori, Rhia thought, glad for the familiar weight of her bow and quiver at her back.

“Well,” said Solas drily. “It doesn't want for sand.”

The days were stifling, the sun oppressive and so they travelled mostly through the cold nights, the murky darkness allowing them cover to take the Venatori by surprise. They found far too many hollow-eyed slaves, and these they had escorted to the forward camp to be fed and healed, with the promise of safety and employment for those who wanted it. After looking in those gaunt faces Rhia began to take a grim satisfaction in their bloody work, her bow singing as her poison-tipped arrows tore through muscle and sinew.

When dawn crept over the horizon they would find meagre shade to make camp, precious water spilled on cloths to wipe away the night’s gore and sweat and sand, so much sand, gritty in her hair and boots and smallclothes. With a watch posted they would crawl, exhausted into their tents. By unspoken agreement she shared a tent with Solas, Cole sleeping next to Bull after she extracted the Qunari’s solemn promise not to roll over in the night and crush him.

The dry heat of the tent demanded that Rhia and Solas strip down to their smallclothes if they were to have any chance at sleep, but they would exchange only a brief kiss before turning chastely to their respective bedrolls, exhaustion sending them both tumbling into the Fade.

There they found each other and the desert became a floating sea of soft sand around them as they lay together, mouths and fingers gently exploring each other's dream bodies, soft sighs and murmured words falling from their lips.

“A forest used to tower here, until sand ate away the roots,” he told her, and she could see it, the tall trees stretching upwards into infinity, a bed of green moss beneath them and the song of a thousand thousand birds dancing in their ears. They twined around each other like tangled roots and his face was buried in her hair as she cried his name, then whispered it. _Solas_. _Solas_.

After the passage of hours they would wake, soaked with cooling sweat and throats parched, and he would smile a knowing smile as they readied themselves for another night trudging across the endless sand.

She liked to remain silent as they walked, content to listen as Solas needled Bull about the Qun and Bull good-naturedly responded. He was a thinker, that one, and his insights sometimes surprised her. She wondered how an inquisitive mind fared under the Qun. Not well, she suspected.

The party fell silent as they ascended the side of a mountain, sand squeaking under their boots. They reached a crest and paused, looking out over the dark plain. She noted the position of a green glow to the east, a rift that would need closing.  
Into the silence Cole spoke, the sudden sound making her startle and reach for her bow.

“You are quiet, Solas.”

Solas’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon, but his answer was gentle. “Unless I have something to say, yes.”

Cole shook his head, unsatisfied. “No, inside. I don't hear your hurt as much. Your song is softer, subtler, not silent but still.”

Solas turned to face him. “How small the pain of one man seems when weighed against the endless depths of memory, of feeling, of existence. That ocean carries everyone. And those of us who learn to see its currents move through life with fewer ripples.”

Cole considered this for a moment. “There is pain though, still within you.”

His eyes flickered to hers, away again. “And I never said that there was not.” He turned, carried on walking.

Cole looked to her and she smiled, shrugged. She had no insight to offer; she guarded her own pain, and he his. Such was their nature.

  
At home in Skyhold their uneasy dance resumed. She would visit him in his room below the library, hear his soft greeting, "My heart," listen to his stories, ask his opinions. His quarters were somewhere upstairs, she knew, but she never sought him there. She waited for him to come to her, unwilling to chase him.

Both private people, they were mindful of discretion. But Skyhold was not a place for privacy, particularly not for the Inquisitor.  
“I've seen how you look at him,” Sera said one day. “You're in it. Bet he calls out ‘Elven glory!’ when he does it.”

She couldn't resist. “More often it's ‘ar lath ma, vhenan!’” Hand on her heart, eyes rolled back dramatically.

“Pppbbthh!” Sera pulled a face, disgusted, and she laughed.

Many nights she wandered the Fade in solitude, not seeking him out. She still found comfort in being alone. Other times she would not dream, or would not recall her dreams, and if she woke with the memory of a kiss on her lips she was couldn't be certain if it was her imagination.

And other nights he would come to her, slipping wordlessly between the sheets. She still sensed a restraint in him, a reserve. She would try to tease him, provoke him but he was as carefully controlled in his fucking as in his magic, each movement precisely measured. She couldn't fault his skill but she felt something unequal between them, something withheld, even as he moved her to new heights of ecstasy, her body blossoming into life under his touch. He would make her scream, cry, curse, whimper, drag unwilling words of love from her. Then he would vanish before morning and she would not beg him again to stay.

But each time he left her with a whispered “Ar lath ma, vhenan.”


	7. Shiver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirty talk at the Winter Palace, because we all know deep down Solas is filthy

The wine spread a pleasant numbness through her limbs. She had faced a daunting task, perhaps her greatest challenge yet, but in the end it had been surprisingly easy. A twist here, a pull there and she held the reins of the court in her hands. She wasn't so foolish as to think they respected her, an _elf_ _savage_ , but they respected her ability to play the Game.

A brave face, a few lies, some half-truths, polite words, intrigue, manipulation...she'd been playing the Game since she dropped out of the Fade in Haven.

So an assassination was foiled, a civil war ended. A victory, but her thoughts lingered on what they had found in the servants’ quarters. Bodies slumped against the walls, servants, overwhelmingly elves. A girl running, terror on her face, cut down before they could stop it. Now that it was all over, she drank to forget. It wasn't working yet.

Pale dawn was breaking when Solas joined her on the balcony. “I'm not surprised to find you out here.” He leaned against the railing companionably. “Thoughts?”

They discussed the night's events, the potential ramifications. For the first time since arriving at the Winter Palace she felt at ease, his presence by her side a welcome intrusion.

After a while they fell silent, looking out over the palace grounds, the gardens grey in the dawn light. When he spoke again his voice was distant, soft.

“There are spirits hovering by the veil to observe the thrones of powerful nations. The machinations, betrayals. I had forgotten how I missed court intrigue.”

She looked at him, curious. “You miss court intrigue? When were you at court?”

His mouth thinned in disapproval and she realised he'd slipped up, revealed more than he intended. She felt a small surge of triumph. Another sliver of information gleaned, another chink in his armour. A subtle shift in the balance between them.

“Oh well, never directly of course.” He was smooth, almost unflappable.  “An elven apostate is rarely invited to speak with empresses and kings. But from the fade I have watched dynasties fall and empires crumble. It is sometimes savage, sometimes noble, and always fascinating.”

He moved to change the subject, extending a hand to her, his tone suddenly light, mischievous.

“Come, before the band stops playing. Dance with me.”

She hesitated only a moment. “I'd love to.”

They waltzed slowly, the wine and the perfumed air and her lover’s hand warm on her waist making her feel giddy.

“I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger and sex that permeates these events,” he murmured. “I have seen countless such displays in my journeys in the fade. The powerful have always been the same.” His eyes lingered on her breasts beneath the green and silver gown. “Only the costumes change.”

There was a feral glint in his eyes, the sweet smell of wine on his breath. He slid his hand from her waist to the small of her back and pressed her close, his words warm against her ear.

“How refreshing it is to see you in a gown, vhenan. I have been wondering all night if there is room under those full skirts for me to hide.” He bit gently on her earlobe. “I was imagining you making small talk with the Empress of Orlais as I knelt beneath you with my tongue in your cunt.”

She laughed, shocked even as she felt a shiver run from her belly to the area in question. “It sounds...impractical.”

His breath ghosted on her neck as they danced and when she pressed against him she could feel him hard beneath his ceremonial tunic.

Fingers brushed the curve of her breast. "Perhaps instead I should bend you over the railing here,” he murmured. “Push your skirts up and fuck you, hard, until you scream and Josephine comes running to see what's wrong.”

She wasn't used to such language from him. His slight emphasis on that single word, _fuck_ , sent a rush of damp warmth between her legs. She drew in an unsteady breath. “You couldn't do that to poor Josephine.”

His hand slid down her back and lower, bunching the brocaded fabric between her legs. “I'm more concerned with what I'm going to do to you.”

He rubbed a finger against her and dragged his mouth slowly up the side of her neck and she leaned into him, sighing, her hips pushing gently against his and making him groan, long and low.

“Your majeesty, come queekly!” she whispered. “Zee elves are fucking on zee balcony! Oh, zee scandal!”

He shook his head, laughing against her bare neck. “Vhenan, if I kiss you now will you promise never to use that accent again?”

She put her mouth to his ear. “That all depends where you kiss me, _vhenan_.”

He drew back and took her hand, his expression suddenly serious. “Come, Inquisitor,” he said, his voice low with need. “I think it's time we find your quarters.”


	8. Sparrow

_If you must speak_

_Speak every word as though it were unique_

\- Keaton Henson, _You_

 

_Sparkles?_

Too much like Sparkler, already taken. He's running out of good ones.

_Elfy?_

Not even trying.

Maybe she doesn't need one. Hawke is just Hawke, after all. He already calls her Inquisitor, something that's not her name, but she's uneasy with the title.

_Quiz?_

No.

_Sorrow._

That's not a nickname, it's an emotion. But it's in his head now and it's all he can see when he looks at her, even though she's smiling, watching them laugh, part of it but not really part of it.

She's been nursing that pint for an hour now, perched on her chair like she wants to fly away. She played a couple of hands early on and it was no surprise she was good, the kid’s got a natural talent for almost everything. But winning made her uncomfortable and she's happier now to watch, sometimes escaping to get another round of drinks.

Solas hasn't joined them after all. Again no surprises, he's not much of a joiner, although he thought maybe for her sake...but that's not him, Varric thinks, he's not the kind of man who thinks gestures are important.

He's watched them for a while now, since she first started gravitating towards the apostate at Haven. It didn't concern him too much at first, he didn't think Solas would return her attentions although he seemed ready enough to flirt, in his fashion. But lately it’s become something deeper and he’s not sure it’s good for her, she seems to carry his weight now along with her own, seeking to understand him when maybe there’s no understanding to be had. He’s a closed book and it’s going to take more than her to open him.

There’s a quality to their relationship that he's seen before. Yeah, she's the boss, but with Solas it's like she's a pupil and he’s the teacher. It's an unequal balance of power and it never ends well. For all she thinks of herself as cynical and world-weary, for all the skill with which she navigates these shark-filled waters, the kid’s out of her depth with him. It's shaping up to be a tragedy better than anything he's written.

He frowns. Let them think it’s his cards that bother him. They aren't great, come to mention it. He doesn't know where it comes from, this urge to stick his nose in everyone's business. It didn't help Hawke and it won't help the Inquisitor. Why would she listen to him anyway? After Valammar she's seen the mess that passes for his own love life. Let the kid make her own mistakes and hope it doesn't lead to the end of the world.

Sometimes silence is better.

She's looking at him now, her tiny shoulders hunched, dark eyes bright and inquisitive. Like a little bird.

_Sparrow?_

It's a start.

He smiles back at her, throws in his cards.


	9. Stripped

_If you must leave_

_Leave as though fire burns under your feet_

\- Keaton Henson, _You_

 

“Come with me, vhenan.”

 

He held her hand as they walked, the simple gesture of affection both unfamiliar and comfortable, his fingers warm between hers. Here there was no chill in the night air, the clearing sheltered by rocky walls covered in dense foliage. Moonlight danced on the water, lent an unearthly gleam to the ancient stone harts towering above them.

“The veil is thin here. Can you feel it on your skin, tingling?” Perhaps it was the power of suggestion but she felt she could, a subtle sensation in the air like a building thunderstorm but light, delicate.

They halted by the water's edge. Her eyes traced the contours of his face, his stern brows, his full lips, his lightly freckled skin. He raised his hand to her cheek and she leaned into it, breathing him in.

“I was trying to determine some way to show you what you mean to me.” The warmth in his musical voice sent a happy shiver down her spine. He withdrew his hand and she touched her face, felt the ghost of his fingers.

“That's not necessary, Solas. You're my…” she faltered, suddenly unsure what she had meant to say.

He looked at her with gentle, infuriating amusement.

“That is the question, is it not? For now, the best gift I can offer is...the truth.”

The truth? It was too much. She held her breath, suddenly afraid that the moment might slip away, his honesty lost to her.

“You are unique. In all Thedas, I never expected to find someone who could draw my attention from the Fade. You have become important to me, more important than I had imagined.”

Was this it then, the truth? Just feelings about her? But it was more than he had revealed before, a tiny portion of his soul bared. It deserved some response, but when they came her words were weak.

“As you are to me.”

“Then what I must tell you...the truth…”

Truth. The word was heavy, it held power. She felt an urge to stop him, to prevent him speaking words that couldn't be unsaid, of things forever changing between them. It was what she wanted, to know him, but it scared her. If he let her in, she would have to give all of herself in return.

“Your face.”

Wait. What?

“The vallaslin. In my journeys in the Fade, I have seen things. I have discovered what those marks mean.”

She frowned, deflated. After all that, another fucking history lesson? “They honour the elven gods.”

“No.” Emphatic. “They are slave markings. Or at least, they were in the time of ancient Arlathan.”

“My clan's keeper said they honoured the gods.” She was stubborn, tired of his wisdom, his certainty. She wanted him to be wrong for once. “These are their symbols.”

“Yes, that's right. A noble would mark his slaves to honour the god he worshipped. After Arlathan fell, the Dalish forgot.”

You can't know that, she wanted to retort. But the Dalish had forgotten so much. Their lore was fragmented, scraps of stories gleaned and passed from clan to clan, changing who knew how much in the retelling. Even their language reduced to a scattering of phrases.

“So this is...what? Just one more thing that the Dalish got wrong?”

“I'm sorry.” He misinterpreted her sadness, didn't see the disappointment he'd caused her. She wasn't going to enlighten him. She sighed.

“We try to preserve our culture, and this is what we keep? Relics of a time when we were no better than Tevinter?” And thinking of the cowed and broken people they had rescued from the Venatori, she found the knowledge did sting.

“Don't say that.” There was sincerity in his voice. “For all they got wrong, the Dalish did one thing right. They made you.” It was a clumsy line and he knew it, lips curling in a smile. “I didn't tell you this to hurt you. If you like, I know a spell. I can remove the vallaslin.”

Remove it? It was more than she could have hoped. To take away another piece of her past, her identity. Her self.

She hesitated for a moment, afraid to seem too eager. “Even if what you're saying is true, I don't think I can just let you erase them.”

But her eyes begged. Take them, please. His face was soft as he looked down at her. “I'm so sorry for causing you pain. It was selfish of me. I look at you, and I see what you truly are...and you deserve better than those cruel marks represent.”

 _I deserve nothing_. But she smiled, trusting. “Then cast your spell. Take the vallaslin away.”

 

“Sit.”

He drew her down by the water, in truth more kneeling than sitting. He studied her face, the dark red across her cheeks like claw marks. Dirthamen, the god of secrets. It was fitting. But no more.

He raised his hands to hover near her face, blue-green magic shimmering beneath his fingers. Gently he moved over her face, her scalp, to the back of her head before letting his hands fall.

He had come close, so close to revealing more than was wise. But this was better. Her face was pale, clear, flawless. Perfect.

“ _Ar lasa mala revas_ ,” he murmured. “You are free.”

They rose to their feet and she took his hand, smiled shyly. Her dark eyes shone as she looked at him and his breath caught in his throat.

“You are so beautiful.” She was.

They drew together tentatively, their lips hovering a moment before meeting, his hand curving around her backside as he kissed her, lost himself in her softness, her warm clean scent, the curve of her body against his. He broke the kiss, sighing. There was no rush. They had forever.

But they didn’t. And all at once the world around him was flat, colourless. She was unreal, mortal, decaying even as she stood before him. The taste of her was ashes in his mouth. All of this, this grey world, her, it was all wrong. He drew back, suddenly cold.

“And I am sorry. I distracted you from your duty. It will never happen again.”

He saw the hurt in her eyes, the confusion.

“Solas.”

It was a plea, broken. It was almost enough to bring him undone. Almost.

He denied her. “Please, vhenan.”

She stepped forward, desperation in her voice now. He had never seen her so exposed. “Solas, don't leave me, not now.” A cry, words she had never said before. “I love you!”

Empty words. He had hurt her but it was no matter. One did not waste time pondering the feelings of pieces on a chessboard. She was fake, transient. Her feelings were unimportant. His sole concern should be the task ahead of them, the magic she carried, the chance to right past wrongs. He would bring the world back to life, and with it the elves, true elves, not this scrap of mortal flesh.

And yet…

He backed away, shook his head.

“You have a rare and marvelous spirit.” It was the truth. He owed her some small truth. “In another world - “

“Why not this one?” Her dark eyes still held him, pleading, childlike. How could he explain to her the wrongness of this world? She had not the experience to understand, her senses were blunted, her mind caged.

“I...can't.” He needed to walk away, to look away from those eyes. “I'm sorry.”

He left her.


	10. Shorn

_I begged you not to drink from the well! Why could you not have listened?_

But he hadn't begged her. He had said they should take the well’s power, said Morrigan wasn't to be trusted but refused it for himself. What choice had he left her?

Was that why?

She could hear them now, the servants of Mythal. Fragmented whispers, a language that was like her own but different, ancient, her mind too scattered to attempt translation. Holding her hands against her ears made no difference. They stirred, pressed around her, regarding her pain with a cool curiosity.

_You gave yourself into the service of an ancient elven god!_

His anger had been surprising, her own less so.

_You don't even believe in the ancient elven gods!_

She hadn't been able to keep the bitterness from her voice.

 _Bound to the will of Mythal, to the will of the Inquisition, to fate…_ Unspoken, _to you._

_What's the fucking difference, Solas?_

He had been contrite, soothing. A hahren pacifying an unruly child.

_You have not been what I expected, Inquisitor. You have...impressed me. You have offered hope, that if one keeps trying, even if the consequences are grave, that some day things will be better._

Some day things will be better.

She wished it were true, but all she could feel now was a dull, sick pain, a vast emptiness.

_Whatever comes, I will have you by my side._

Stupid. She stared at the wall, unseeing.

_Come with me, vhenan._

Eventually she stirred, walked on shaky legs to the desk and fumbled until her fingers closed on a dagger. She sat cross-legged by the fireplace, weighing it in her hand, looking through the flames.

_You have given up a part of yourself._

Rhia had lost count of the parts of herself she had given up.

She lifted a handful of hair, sawed until it fell away. She threw it on the fire and it sparked and withered, giving off a sharp, acrid smell. She hacked, hewed, tossed more of her black locks into the flames. Finally she threw the dagger aside, curled up, cat-like, before the dying fire.

_It will never happen again._

It was hours before sleep took her, a dreamless darkness.

 

The sun was high when she awoke, surprised they hadn't sent someone looking for her. Then the memory hit her like a punch in the stomach. She sat up slowly. The fire had burned away in the night. Ashes, all was ashes.

_With luck, some of the past may yet survive._

She ran her hands over her head, her hair sticking up in wild tufts. She must look ridiculous. She staggered to her feet and made her way to the wardrobe, rummaging through the mess of clothing, largely unworn.

_You're being grim and fatalistic in the hope of getting me into bed, aren't you?_

There it was, a cloak, oiled fabric, a hood to keep the rain off. But it never rained in Skyhold. Endless blue skies all the fucking time. For today at least she wished it were grey, windy, sheets of icy rain to lash her skin and wash away the feeling of being soiled, used up and discarded.

_I am grim and fatalistic. Getting you into bed is just an enjoyable side benefit._

She pulled the hood up around her ears and slipped downstairs.

 

She took a circuitous path to the library, creeping down to the cellars before winding her way up the stairs, avoiding people, avoiding _his_ room.

Dorian was where she thought to find him, perusing the shelves with a look of faint disgust. When she lowered her hood it was a moment before he recognised her, surprise at her bare face turning swiftly to alarm as he took in her shorn hair.

“ _Venhedis!"_

He took her by the shoulders, turned her, clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "No, this will not do. Come with me.”

She went with him meekly, once again hooded, his hand resting on her back as he guided her upstairs and to his surprisingly modest quarters. Here he bade her take a seat while he rifled through his belongings, various implements and vials unearthed and cast aside. He gently pushed back her hood and regarded her critically, a finger twirling in his moustache. Finally he nodded.

“All is not lost, Inquisitor. Leave it to me.”

He moved her to sit before a desk, unstopped a bottle and worked a perfumed liquid through her abused hair before picking out a comb fashioned from dragonbone. He hummed cheerfully as he worked through the short tangles. Next he produced a soft roll of tooled leather, unfurled it to reveal a pair of long golderite scissors. She closed her eyes gratefully as he darted around her, the movement of his nimble fingers and the soft _snip-snip_ of the scissors soothing her shattered nerves.

At last he stopped and she opened her eyes, meeting his dully.

With a flourish he produced an ornate hand mirror, offered it to her, pleased. "I think it turned out rather well, don't you?”

Mutely she took it from him, but it wasn't her hair she saw in the glass. She stared at her face and it stared back, naked, pale, exposed.

_You are so beautiful._

Then the change, abrupt, all her fears realised in a single moment. He had seen her, scorned her, and she had begged him, actually begged him! Told him she loved him. Stupid, _stupid_ little girl.

The tears came then, fat drops forming in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks.

Dorian _tsked_ , gathered her into his arms and she broke, sobbing like a child, the hurt and loss choking her even as he soothed her, running an affectionate hand over her hair.

“Now, now, Inquisitor. At least now you don't look like you've been savaged by wyverns. You're paying to have this robe laundered, by the way.” He patted her back gently as her sobs turned to hiccups.

Finally she fell silent and gulped, pulled away from him and wiped her eyes, embarrassed. She gratefully took the handkerchief he offered. “Oh no no, do keep it, please,” he said, eyeing the damp silk with distaste. He looked searchingly into her face, nodded before turning to pack his implements away.

As he worked he spoke over his shoulder, deliberately casual.

“You know, I think I have a bottle of rather good Antivan red squirrelled away somewhere. None of this back country swill.” Rhia looked at him dumbly. “We can send to the kitchens for some glasses. And perhaps while we're at it, a bite to eat? I don't know about you but I'm starved.”

She couldn't remember the last time she ate. “It's early," she said weakly.

“Never mind that,” he scoffed. He turned to lean against the desk, a warm glint in his eye. “I'm sure if we run out we can find another bottle somewhere!”

Despite herself she grinned, rubbing a hand across her tear-streaked face.

“Food would be good.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow.

“And wine.”

He smiled. “There’s my girl.”


	11. Shenanigans

This is bad.

She hasn't seen the Inquisitor like this before. Angry, sure. Scared even, for a minute there at Adamant. But never so...broken. Oh, she's going through the motions alright, but there's an extra stoop to her shoulders, the shiny spark gone out of her eyes. She’s still around, nose up in everything, but somehow she isn't. Sera’s surprised to find she misses her.

It isn't good this business, elves with elves, getting all elfy together. Especially that one with his head stuck in the Fade, too busy thinking about lost glory or magic or ruins or whatever to look what a mess he's made.

Although the Inquisitor isn't elfy, not really. Oh she had the vallas-thingy all over her face, Sera’s not sorry to see that gone, but she's not like a normal Dalish. Normal Dalish, ha! No such thing, is there? But she doesn't act like one of them, all superior with tradition and whatever. Doesn't even talk like one of them. Sera will take posh over elfy any day, even if it's fake. She can see what the Herald's up to - even if they know you're not one of them, keep acting like one until they think of you that way. She's in charge, no question, so they'd rather think she's like them than some foresty elf, all barefoot. It's not Sera’s way but she has to admit it’s working. She's even got that frosty bitch Viv eating out of her hand. Got them all wrapped round her little finger.

All except him.

They should have steered her somewhere else. The sneery commander with his furry cloak, or maybe Blackwall. Ugh, beardy. But he'd have been good to her. The Iron Bull. That’d be hilarious, yeah? Cole would have helped, probably. He doesn't like to see anyone sad, and she’s sad alright.

She plays things pretty close, the Inquisitor. If she’s out there hurting for everyone to see, it’s got to be bad.

Stupid, elfy, arse-head shitweasel. Her doodling has turned into a furious scribble. She sighs, flicks back through her journal until she finds it. A rough sketch, pointy ears, frowny face, bald head with a crudely drawn cock and balls sticking out if it. She laughs. Still funny.

Here she comes now across the courtyard, eyes down. She looks like she's shrunk. Do people shrink? She'll talk to Krem first, then Bull, maybe that creepy bard. Then she'll come and see Sera. Always the boss, always checking in on everyone.

She puts away her journal, stands up and pretends like she's looking out the window. This won't do. Something’s got to change before everything goes to shite. It's time for a plan.

 

“ _You_ have a problem.”

 

Wow. She actually went for it. Sera had to come up with some bollocks about it being for the good of the Inquisition, she'd never do it for herself, but she's here. The Inquisitor, the Herald of frigging Andraste, playing pranks and bloody loving it. It'd be good to do one on Solas but she'd never go for it. Doesn't mean Sera can't though. Something with frogs? Or earwigs. Earwigs! Haha. Thanks for that one, Inquisitor.

The Herald - Rhia, she's got a name - is thinking now, looking around the spymaster’s room. She stops, looks questioningly at Sera.

“What’s that? A locked...no, leave that.” Rhia frowns, confused, and she has to explain. “Not interested in her hidden things. Not for just a bit of fun.” She considers. “Maybe feed her messengers something gassy. No, birds don’t parp. But they flap, and...uh. Huh.” Bites her lip, thinking.

A voice from downstairs. “Who is up there?”

Ugh, it's him _._  Frig, that's spoiled it. The Inquisitor freezes, a flicker of pain across her face.

Then looks at Sera, smiles, eyes alight with mischief.

“Go!”

And they run, breathless with laughter.

 

It's good, this. She's got a new memory, something fun, not sad. And a win, a secret, something over him.

She'll get through it.

_“You!”_

That's if Josie doesn't kill her first.

“Oh, frig.” Sera looks at the drenched ambassador, back at Rhia, her eyes wide with alarm. “You did it!” And she cackles and runs away, happy.


	12. Stay

_Tal-vashoth._

She ran the phrase around in her head until it was a meaningless sound, chanted it silently with her footsteps, with the notching and drawing of her bow, with the rhythm of her breath as they trekked through the Hinterlands.

Tal-vashoth, Tal-vashoth, Tal-va- _fucking_ -shoth. Tal-vashoth.

It didn't help her understand what it meant to him.

But she understood the tension in his jaw, the restless gleam in his eye. He needed to break something. Something big.

“Bull,” she said as he sat hunched on a rock in camp, the corner of his mouth twisted in discontent. “Let's go kill a dragon.”

He grinned.

 

Her head was pleasantly fuzzy, the rough qunari liquor still burning in her throat and sending warmth through her limbs. The Herald’s Rest swam just a little around her.

No doubt Solas would disapprove, but she didn't need his approval any more.

“Hey.”

She stirred, looked up, up, up at Bull standing over her. She smiled crookedly. Bull. She loved Bull.

“We should get you to bed.”

“Can't,” she mumbled. “I'm too heavy.”

He laughed, a low rumble. “You're really not, boss.” She was suddenly hoisted off her chair, cradled against Bull’s immense chest.

“Bull!” she protested. “This is...just not dignified.”

He huffed. “You're right.” He lifted her, placed her on his shoulders and she wrapped her legs around his thick neck to steady herself. Oh, he was tall.

She regarded her hands, clutched on his rough horns for balance. “This feels impolite.”

He shrugged, the movement making her squeal and tighten her grip. “If you wanna grab my ears instead, be my guest.” She kicked her heels against his chest and he strode for the door, ducking at the last second when she shrieked. She laughed in delight as he strode across the courtyard and up the stairs, massive hands resting on her thighs to anchor her in place. She could feel his muscles bunch and move beneath her legs as he walked.

Finally he deposited her on the floor of her quarters and she swayed slightly, clutching his belt for balance. She rested her cheek on his midriff, sighed in contentment. “Bull.”

He ruffled her hair, gave her a pat on the back that made her splutter. “Thanks for this, boss.”

She leaned back and raised her face to look at him, squinting.

Fuck it. “Hey Bull.”

“Yeah, boss.”

“Stay.”

He was silent, his face shadowed, unreadable. But he _wanted_ to. She felt it in his clenched muscles, in the slow rise and fall of his chest, in his hand resting on her shoulder light and yet heavy with indecision.

“I dunno,” he murmured, and his low voice was a caress. “You're pretty drunk. _I'm_ pretty drunk.”

“Good,” she said, tugging on his belt. And insistently, “Stay.”

She’d been alone too long.

He hesitated. Then silently, slowly, he backed her up against the wall. He looked down at her, placed gentle hands on her waist and bent to press his mouth to hers and when he broke away her lips felt cold at the loss. He ran kisses along her jaw with surprising tenderness.

She punched him hard in the shoulder.

“No.”

Surprised, he drew back to examine her face.

“Tell me,” he said.

“Not like…” She rubbed an unsteady hand across her eyes, struggling to articulate through the fog of alcohol. “Not like you care. Not like that.”

He breathed a soft huff that might have been a laugh. “Damn, boss,” he muttered, a grudging respect in his voice, “guess I read you wrong.” She smiled, feeling a small measure of satisfaction. “How do we do this, then?”

She leaned back against the wall, chin up, challenging. “You're Ben-Hassrath. Work it out.”

He smiled. “Allllright then. First,” and he took hold of her wrists, gathering them in one big hand and pinning them to the wall above her head. With his other hand he cupped her behind and lifted her, and her legs seemed to her twig-thin as she wrapped them around his huge waist. He growled, ground against her core, nipped her earlobe. _Yes_ , she thought, _this_ , and she rubbed against him, wanton. _Forget. Forget him._ His groan vibrated through her.

He lowered her feet to the floor and stood back, unbuckling his harness and then his belt.

“Take it off,” he growled.

She staggered as she pulled off her soft leather boots, dragged her leggings down over her ankles, and he shed his own boots and ankle brace. She raised her arms and Bull helped her tunic up and over her head, baring her upper body. She was rewarded with a low rumble of appreciation. He nodded at her smallclothes and she slid them down over her hips, kicked them free. She was bare for the first time in front of another person, body and face.

With one hand at her back, the other behind her knees, he lifted her and lowered her onto the bed, light, insubstantial. The mattress sagged as he lay down next to her, pulled her roughly to him and buried his face in her neck, his big hand sliding between her thighs.

She squirmed, groaned. She wanted it fast, hard, impersonal. He sensed her impatience and chuckled softly. “Gotta go slow for a bit,” he murmured. “Trust me, boss, you'll thank me later.” His fingers began to move then, and her complaints were forgotten.

 

Later he shifted her slack limbs, rearranged the blankets around her. She burrowed into the bedding, a soft smile on her face, all heaviness and happy aches. She heard him take the stairs, the distant thud of the door closing. Muffled voices, his low murmur, “She needs rest.”

She rested.


	13. Solace

_If you must weep_

_Do it right here in my bed as I sleep_

\- Keaton Henson, _You_

 

They lay out the ground rules, fall into an easy rhythm. Sometimes he comes to her, sometimes she finds him in the tavern and leads him upstairs, but when the door closes he's in charge. He won't ask her to make any decisions, he wants her to know she's got no power here except the power to say no. Stop. _Katoh._ She hasn't said it yet. It's what she needs, and she's skeptical at first, thinking he's going to bring out whips, chains, some Qunari sex-torture device. But she relaxes once she knows it's just her and him. Well, and sometimes some rope too.

Early on he's got her bent backwards over her desk and she lifts her head, narrows her eyes at him. “You're holding back.”

He laughs. “You're damn right I am.”

“Why?” Wriggling, petulant.

“It's simple logistics, boss. I don't hold back, we're gonna need a healer in here. Maybe even the surgeon. That sound like a good time?”

She considers. “No.”

“This not enough for you?” He's got maybe half his length buried in her, hips rolling in and out, not sure he can go further without breaking something. It feels good though. _Damn_ , it feels good.

“It's...ah. It's enough. More than enough. But what about you?”

He flips her over, grabs a handful of her short hair and speaks low and close to her ear.

“Trust me, boss. I'm getting _everything_ I need.” He pushes into her again and she gasps, shutting her eyes. "Any more questions?"

Muffled against the desk. "Not right now."

 

She takes him with her to the Emerald Graves, a place where the foliage is aggressively green and you can't swing an axe without hitting some Orlesian asshole. Luckily hitting Orlesian assholes with an axe is just what he's there for. That, and her.

The history of the place wears at her, he can see it in the set of her shoulders, her face when they come across yet another statue erected to crow over the slaughter of the elves. At night he pulls her against him and she's grateful when he slips a hand inside her smallclothes, gets her off before she falls asleep. He doesn't need more, he tells her, and it's most often true.

But sometimes he slips out of the tent after, goes off into the trees on the pretext of relieving himself. Which he does, in a way, inhaling the faint scent of her on his fingers while the other hand pumps away. As much as her cries of passion and the bounce of her perfect little tits he thinks of the sway of her hips, her graceful fingers notching an arrow to her bow, the frown she gets on her face when she's sleeping.

He hasn't done this before, this heady mix of sex and affection. It feels dangerous somehow, unstable. Is this what it is to be Tal-Vashoth?

The night after they bring down their second dragon they're both filled with a restless energy and she climbs on top of him, his big hands supporting her as he slides her up and down on his cock, her fist clenched in her teeth to keep the noise down although it's not like anyone in camp doesn't know what they're doing, sneaking off early with that look in her eye.

She's so raw, so alive. How could anyone toss her aside? A low rumble escapes him at the thought and she smirks behind her fist, rolls her hips into him. He moves her, still gentle but faster and faster until his hips buck underneath her and she throws her head back, screams into her knuckles. It's not too quiet but she doesn't seem to care.

 

Back at Skyhold and they've got room to move. He tests her limits, pushes her, stretches her. Her little body is tougher than it looks. He takes up all her senses, makes sure her mind's on him, only him.

One night she falls asleep in his bed and he wakes to find his chest wet with her tears. She's asleep still. Maybe she's thinking about Haven. Or maybe she's thinking about Solas. It doesn't matter now, he's got her. He gathers her up like a kid holding a doll, cradles her against his chest until she's peaceful again, just that little frown she gets on her face when she's sleeping.


	14. Slip

Solas’s lips were thin with disapproval. Good. She took a perverse delight in making him angry. She wasn’t here for him though, she was here for Cole. He deserved this chance to grow, to evolve.

They were left standing together awkwardly as Varric hurried after the boy and the templar responsible for his death. Someone’s death. It was confusing.

“So,” he said finally. “You would warp Cole’s nature, steer him from his purpose. For what, Inquisitor? To spite me?”

It was uncomfortably close to the truth, but she turned on him anyway, venom in her voice. “Not everything is about you, Solas.” She glared and he was the one to look away, frowning. He was silent for a time.

“And what of you and the Iron Bull? Is that about me?”

She laughed bitterly. “You fucking arrogant - “ A passing villager glanced at them in alarm and she lowered her voice, all but hissing. “Is that what you think of me? That I’ll spread my legs for the nearest warm body just to make you feel bad?”

He had the grace to look ashamed, but still had to have the last word. “There’s no need for vulgarity, Inquisitor.”

“Vulgarity?” She snorted. “I’ve heard worse.” At that he flushed, avoiding her eyes.

Ha! This round was hers.

She crossed her arms, stared after Cole and Varric.

“Come on,” she said. “We should follow them.”

 

Rhia wondered what time it was. Dorian had been helping her to find a book, an assignment for Heir, but as the hour grew late he had given up and gone to bed. The librarian had been no help.

“We definitely had a copy of that text,” he had told her, confused. “I seem to remember somebody took it...but I don’t recall who.”

Oh. Now that she thought about it, she had some idea where it might be. But now it could wait for the morning. The library was deserted. Apparently the Tranquil did sleep! Looked like she owed Varric a drink.

She exited the stairs to find Solas watching her, standing in the middle of his room as if lost. She froze, regarded him warily.

He spoke softly. “Inquisitor. I owe you an apology.”

“Just one?”

He didn’t rise to the bait. “Perhaps more than one. But I wish to apologise for my words earlier. It was...unworthy of me.”

She was still, a wild animal poised for flight. She looked at him silently. She was tired, too tired for games.

He stepped towards her and she flinched, backed away. He halted, seeming pained by her response. Finally he spoke again.

“Your affairs are not my business. I should not have pried...should not have assumed.”

“No. You should not.”

He raised his hands, a gesture of appeasement, but she refused to be appeased. The wound had been left to fester, and he had foolishly reopened it. She advanced on him and he retreated, backed up against the wall.

“You ended this. You took everything. And you broke me. You _broke_ me.” She hit him, an open-handed smack on his chest, deliberately ineffectual, but he winced. “Who the _fuck_ do you think you are? How dare you question me? _Judge_ me?” She hit him again, almost a shove, demanding a response. He was stiff, still, his eyes dark with pain. “Say something! _Do_ something!”

Solas grabbed her wrists, pulled her close and kissed her hungrily.

Rhia froze and he drew back, an apology on his lips.

She jerked her wrists angrily and he released her, but she didn't move away. She was breathing hard, her voice low and dangerous. “Did I say stop?”

The familiar slow shake of his head enraged her and she shoved him again, pressed him back against the wall and kissed him hard, bruising, biting. He responded in kind, cupping her buttocks, dragging her into the grind of his hips. This time she broke the kiss, lips pressed together in fury, eyes ablaze.

He raised a hand to her face. “Vhenan, I - "

She slapped his hand away. “ _No._ ” But she stayed.

Solas pulled her in for another kiss, his hands moving to unfasten the buttons of her tunic. She pushed his shirt up, grabbed at the laces of his leggings and tugged them open, did the same to her own. He opened her tunic and ran his hands up her stomach, took her lower lip between his teeth as he squeezed her breasts, thumbed roughly at her hardened nipples.

Rhia stepped back, waited for him to move aside before resting her hands against the plaster, eyes fixed on the wall, a fresco of wolves howling. He waited only a moment before shifting in behind her, pulling her leggings and smallclothes down around her thighs.

She bit her lip as he spread her folds with his hand and pushed his cock inside, the familiar weight of him filling her. He hesitated and she pushed back against him, goading him, denying him. He thrust again, again, fingers digging into her hips, the obscene sound of skin slapping together and his breath hot and loud in her ear.

In the past he had always held something back but now he was rough, animal, hips pounding fast against her, hoarse grunts escaping as he drew out and slammed hard back in. Rhia gritted her teeth, spread her hands against the wall. She hurried him, clenched around him, ground against him until he came, gasping, biting at her shoulder hard enough to leave a mark.

She didn't make a sound.

They were still for a second, quiet except their ragged breath. He pulled out and she straightened, adjusted her clothing, didn’t look at him as she pulled her leggings up over wet thighs and refastened her laces.

His voice from behind her. “Vhenan.”

“Inquisitor.” She corrected him, crisp, curt.

“Inquisitor. I... We…” He trailed off lamely.

She finished buttoning her tunic, still didn’t meet his eyes.

“We’ll talk another time.”

It was her turn to leave.

 

 


	15. So

He’s silent, his face serious, thoughtful. She chews her lip nervously as she watches him, his bulk resting on the edge of the bed.

“I dunno, boss,” he finally says. “We didn’t really talk about this, you and me. Whether it was just gonna be...well, you and me.” He looks at her, weighing it up. “But the fact you’re telling me this...I get the feeling maybe you’re looking for something. Punishment?”

She swallows hard. “Punishment?”

He cocks his head to the side. “Yeah. Punishment.” He stands up, towering over her. “I don’t think you’re gonna be into spanking. No...something more like..." Eye narrowed, considering. "Wait! I got it.”

He strides over to her wardrobe, rifles around until he finds a soft scarf. She shifts nervously.

“Now, relax.” He moves around behind her and next thing her eyes are covered, only dull light penetrating the fabric as he ties it, snug but comfortable, around her head. She hears him rummage around some more before he takes her shoulders and steers her gently, guiding her slowly over the first step, downstairs.

“What are you doing, Bull?”

“Shhh, boss. _Punishment_.” They’re going down the second flight of stairs now. He stops before the door, bends down and speaks rough and low in her ear. “We’re going to put on a show.”

It’s late, really late. The hall should be empty. _Should_ be. If not, they’re not seeing anything worse than the Inquisitor being led around blindfolded. Which is not ideal, actually. 

Downstairs he waits while she shuffles her foot forward, finds the dais, steps up. Then he turns her to face him, big fingers unbuttoning her tunic.

“Bull?” It’s a whisper, more like a squeak.

He chuckles. “Nobody’s around. For now.”

He takes off her boots, her leggings, her smallclothes. At this she protests again. “What the fuck, Bull, seriously?”

He pats her cheek. She reminds herself that she can stop this.  _Katoh._ But she's silent. She slipped up, did a stupid thing, and she should pay. Hopefully it stops short of actual humiliation, although a hysterical part of her is amused at the idea of being caught naked in the throne room. Meet the real Inquisitor, everyone! Nothing but filth, trash, a mess of bad decisions.

Then he walks her backwards until she feels the plush fabric of the throne bump against her legs and sits, hard. He takes her arm, lifts it, soft rope wrapping around her wrist. He tethers her, tying the rope around something, probably one of the blunted swords that fan out behind the throne. He repeats his actions with the other wrist so her arms are spread wide, tight enough to hold her but not painful. Then her ankles, the rope coiling around the legs of the throne, her thighs held wide apart however hard she squirms. He steps back then and she can’t see him, can’t hear him. She feels a moment’s panic - is he planning on leaving her like this?

Then a warm hand on her knee, a soft murmur, “I got you.” A hand on her other knee. "Damn, boss, you look..." No word, just a low growl, satisfaction. A big finger drags up her exposed slit, already shamefully wet, and she can't hold back a whimper. "Yeah, that's it."

She feels the rasp of his cheek against her thigh, his lips trailing up her leg. Then the flat of his tongue against her folds, a tiny flick at her sensitive bud. She arches, but the ropes and his hands on her knees hold her fast. “Bull!”

He laughs, the soft huff of breath against her damp flesh sending a shiver through her body. “Good start. But I’m thinking louder.”

She bites her lip hard as his tongue moves in slow circles, teasing her open, running along her slit, curling inside her. Rough thumbs spread her wide open and as much as she can she rocks against him, hips meeting each sinuous thrust of his tongue between her swollen folds. 

"Picture yourself," he murmurs between licking. "Your arms all stretched out and your tits bouncing. Your mouth hanging open. Your thighs _quivering._ Your little cunt all _pink_ and _wet."_

Something like a squeal escapes her throat and a shudder runs through her, his face rough against her skin as he draws out her orgasm, lips closing around her clit and sucking gently.

"Fuck." He presses a wet kiss to the inside of her thigh. "You don't know what it does to my dick when you make that noise, boss."

She feels empty and exposed when he draws back, untying the ropes around her ankles and massaging her legs, thick fingers digging into her calves. She turns her head toward Solas’s room, wonders if he’s still up, if he can hear them.

“Yeah, he’s in there.” Bull murmurs. A gentle pat on her knee. “Ben-Hassrath, remember? Now.”

She feels his hands slide under her, lift her up so she’s supported only by the ropes on her wrists and the strength of his arms, his hands wrapped around her hips. With a series of tiny thrusts his cock eases into her and she gasps. He pushes, pulls her against him so he’s sliding wetly in and out, the width of him pushing hard against her walls and her arms straining.

He growls, squeezes at her hips, bucking into her until her eyes roll back in her head. She’s losing it, trying to keep quiet but it’s hard, it’s so hard, so hard…

“Bull,” she cries. “Quick! Before someone comes.”

He laughs, a rumble deep in his chest. “Some _one_? I was kinda hoping we both would.”

They do.

He takes the blindfold off, helps her dress. When she’s clothed again he crosses his arms and looks down at her, a nod towards Solas’s room.

“So. Are you gonna do it again?”

She smiles up at him.

“Maybe.”


	16. Shift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some inspiration for this chapter came from this (NSFW) artwork: http://imgur.com/Gf9g4bA

She's not sure how it came to this.

Bull is everything. He's a walking fortress, a safe harbour. He doesn't ask questions, doesn't judge. For him, she's enough, and when she's with him she can almost believe it. She finds herself in love with his voice, his easy humour, his body. She likes to lie on his broad chest, trace her fingertips over his tattoos and his silvery scars, feel the deep rumble beneath her when she finds a spot that tickles. He's surprisingly ticklish. She doesn't need more, shouldn't need more.

But the shift in her relations with Solas remains, and she finds herself needing to probe it, explore it, worry at it. She's given up trying to draw information from him, it's enough to know that's she's the one with the power now. She's a flame, bright, burning, and he's just a moth.

She likes it, this sneaking around. Not on Bull, Bull knows all and she'd stop if he asked her to. He hasn't yet, although she knows his habits have changed since they started this, his bed is empty when she's not in it. But it's not a good look for the Inquisitor, sleeping with two different men. Which is part of the charm, really, her little _fuck you_ to the Inquisition, the people who shackled her literally and then figuratively. They're her friends now, weirdly, but petty vengeance is always satisfying.

 _Sleeping with_ doesn't quite describe her time with Solas. They've taken to meeting in the neglected underground library, slipping away for brief moments when her duties allow. It's dusty, cobwebbed, but always deserted. Since the first time against the wall it's always fast, hard, savage. Physical. She's not having whispered words of love, lingering kisses. Not again, not from him. And if he's got thoughts on that, she doesn't want to hear them.

Nights are for Bull. And mornings, and long, lazy afternoons. They've bought themselves some time now, they're just waiting around for Corypheus to make his move. She's ready for him. She's got an army at her back, friends at her side. Her own dragon, which is something she didn't see coming. But the idea of having friends seems no more likely.

Bull’s off on a job with the Chargers and Vivienne for some reason wants a special wyvern heart, so she has to put together a team for the Exalted Plains. Solas should come, she thinks. They can always use a mage. Mages are useful.

They make camp in a misty grove beneath the statue of a great hart. It's an uncomfortable echo of the night in Crestwood, the one they don't talk about. She doesn't look at it and neither does he.

Nothing gets by Cole, though.

“Ar lasa mala revas. You are so beautiful. But then you turned away. Why?”

She's sitting fletching arrows and she freezes, stops breathing. She won't look at Solas. She won't.

Unexpectedly, Solas answers. “I had no choice.”

 _Bullshit_.

“She is bare-faced, embarrassed, and she doesn't know. She thinks it's because of her.”

Blackwall gets up, makes a show of having urgent business far away from the campfire and the suddenly tense atmosphere.

She speaks up, exasperated. “For fuck's sake Cole, I'm right here!” She'd never think of talking to him like that normally, but this is far too much to bear.

“You cannot heal this, Cole. Please, let it go.” Solas's voice is soft, pleading, and she's overtaken by a sudden spite, the need to see him squirm.

“Perhaps Cole can get a better answer from you than I did.” She glances up at his face, sees pain in his eyes. Good. She's an assassin now, trained to seek out weakness in her enemies, and he's still her enemy.

Cole, too, is relentless. Oblivious to the pain he's causing? More likely trying to help. Fine, let's see where it leads. “He hurts, an old pain from before, when everything sang the same.” His face is in shadow beneath his wide-brimmed hat, his voice sing-song. “You're real, and it means everyone could be real. It changes everything, but it can't.”

She's staring at Cole now, open-mouthed, confused.

“They sleep, masked in a mirror, hiding, hurting, and to wake them…” Suddenly he gasps, looks around. “Where did it go?”

Her eyes flick to Solas, suspicious, but he's avoiding her gaze, watching the dancing flames. “I apologise, Cole. That is not a pain you can heal.”

She's silent after that, sullen, but when it comes time to sleep she finds herself following Solas into the tent. Cole is lost in thought and Blackwall - Rainier now, she reminds herself - looks surprised for a moment, but he's keeping his head down lately. If he's got an opinion on their sleeping arrangements, he's keeping it to himself.

They don't talk, don't even undress more than they need to. No kissing, just fucking, cries muffled in fabric, nails digging in his back because she's angry, she's still so angry, she can't stop the fury burning inside her.

The next day doesn't help to lighten her mood, sloshing through waist-high water full of demons and wyverns, all the wrong wyverns.

“I believe I sense one of the artifacts of my people,” Solas says at one stage, and she fixes him with a glare to melt steel.

“Your people? Please Solas, do tell us more about _your_ people.” He wisely falls silent.

Finally after a dragon fight - Bull will hate that he missed that - and a bunch more fucking wyverns, or are they gurguts and what's the difference anyway, they find the right one and she hacks out the heart herself. It's oddly therapeutic.

They're quiet back at camp, set more on finding dry clothes than small talk. She hangs her wet things in a tree, not holding out much hope they'll dry in the chill, misty grove. Unless she can salvage some more armour it's going to be a musty trip back to Skyhold.

She takes her bedroll next to Solas. He's awake, watching her, wary. She props a hand on her chin and returns his gaze.

“What did you see in the Fade?” she asks. “The fears.”

He blinks, surprised at the question. “I would prefer not to discuss it.”

“Fuck that. You know what I saw.”

He smiles. “Spiders.”

“Big spiders. It's a reasonable fear.”

“And deepstalkers?”

She shudders. “Horrible. Ankle-biting little bastards. Hard to hit with an arrow.”

He lies back, fingers linked on his stomach, silent.

“You're really not going to tell me?”

“I am not.”

“For a man who's scared of dying alone, you certainly know how to push people away.” He frowns at her and she cocks an eyebrow. “I can read.”

They lie side by side, not touching.

“He called you trickster.”

He sits up. “What?”

“The demon. In the Fade. He said _harellan._ Trickster. What else did he say?”

He's discomfited now, disapproving. He lies down again, looks at the tent roof. His mouth is pressed in a thin line, eyes narrowed. She's always been a little bit turned on by his disapproval.

She throws a leg over him, straddling his chest. He's looking up at her with those narrow eyes, but not every part of him disapproves. She smiles wickedly, rolls her hips against him. He growls, his hands cupping her buttocks, grinding her against him and she leans down and kisses him, hard, all tongue and teeth. They fumble at their clothes, rolling over so he's on top and then he's inside her, sheathed deep in her, her fingers buried in his shirt, legs wrapped round him, breathing in gasps until she comes hard around him, and he follows, muffled words buried in her breasts, “Ar lath ma!”

“Solas,” she says into the silence that follows.

“Inquisitor?”

“This was the last time.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

She's not sure what she hears in his voice. Not even sure what she feels.

Sorrow? Regret? Relief?

Maybe all three.


	17. Stone

They sat on the wall at Skyhold, watched soldiers sparring in the practice yard. Rhia watched, anyway. Cole was engrossed in his task, gathering bright flowers and twisting the stalks together, a chain. He saw her sideways glance.

“For Sera. She wants a crown made of flowers.” He looked up, eyes distant. “I know where there's another, but it's...hard to get to.”

She raised her bare face to the sun, let the warmth soak through her. When she opened her eyes Cole was regarding her curiously.

“You're too bright. Like counting birds against the sun. The mark makes you more. But past it…”

There was a time when she would have pulled away from his scrutiny, frightened of being seen through. Now she tilted her head, waited for him to continue.

“You reach across, mindful, meaning. You pull it through to this side, make it real here. And past that, the weight of all on you. All the hopes you carry, fears you fight. You are theirs." He looked at her and his eyes were filled with sympathy. "It must be very hard.”

She sighed, nodded.

“I hope I help.”

“You do, Cole.” She meant it.

They fell back into companiable silence, Cole’s deft fingers working the flowers into a loop, a crown. After a while he spoke again. “Pulled, blood that is not blood, a tiny trace of time. Lips struggling to shape language your parents lived.”

 _Parents._ The familiar pain. She pushed at it, examined the hurt.

“It wasn't your fault,” Cole said. “Sometimes people leave. It doesn't mean you made them go.”

She frowned. “Who are we talking about now, Cole?”

He was confused. “We're talking about you.”

She fell silent, fingers working a small stone loose from the wall.

"Old pain, shadows forgotten from dreams too real. This side is slow and heavy, but here is what can change."

She didn't look up from her task. “Solas?”

“Yes.”

“What's he hiding, Cole?”

“Pain. Like everyone.”

It wasn't the answer she was looking for, but it was enough for the moment. She crossed her legs beneath her, held the small stone warm and smooth in the palm of her hand.


	18. She

_If you must work_

_Work to leave some part of you on this earth_

\- Keaton Henson, _You_

 

They moved about a lot in those last days, checking on the Inquisition’s progress, tying up loose ends. Waiting for Corypheus.

She had some trepidations about bringing them both but Bull and Solas were civil, even relaxed, occupying idle moments by moving pieces about on an invisible chessboard, matching wits. She watched them, so different in their forms and their temperaments, so much a part of her.

She had given up on pushing Solas, needling him. His secrets were his own, to keep or give away. He wasn't her concern any more, even the old anger had burned away, just the shadow of a hurt remaining. She was loved, and it was enough.

 

There was a new calm about her, a confidence. He saw it in the set of her shoulders, her eyes shining with determination.

He had been wrong. She was real, vibrant, a flame that burned more brightly for its transience. Fleeting like a falling star but her spirit shone, alive, perfect in her way. He had been wrong, but it was for the best.

He watched their easy friendship, smiles exchanged, small gestures of companionship. Her new lover's presence let her be herself in a way she never could with him. It should have rankled, but he saw the change in the woman he loved and he was both sad and happy.

His vhenan. His heart.

 

She was such a tiny thing, he still marvelled sometimes at her little fingers against his skin, the waist he could span easily with his hands. A tiny thing like her had reason to be scared, even if the world hadn't gone to hell.

But she wasn't, not any more.  She was triumph, vengeance, victory. She faced down the world and all the demons of the Fade would not stand against her.

And she was softness, warmth, laughter. Tucked into his arms at night, her tousled head nested at his shoulder, breathing lightly. He would die for her.

His kadan. His heart.


	19. Stop

_She almost says the word sometimes. Katoh._

_She tastes it in her mouth, sweet release a breath away, tongue tying it tenderly like you tie her._

_But she doesn't. For you, and for her because it makes it mean more._

_A fuller feeling, a brighter burst._

When? Bull wonders. When did she come close?

Kneeling before him on the bed, legs parted. He’s got her wrists pinned behind her, pulls them further back, enjoying the way it makes her tits stick out. His shaft is sliding against her, rubbing along her wet slit as he moves his hips back and forth, holding her still. He gathers both her wrists into one hand, pressing, stretching her arms further, his other hand sliding slickly between her legs. She doesn’t say it then, but she says other things.

The morning, sun spilling into her chambers, the glow on her bare skin. Astride his face, hands gripping his horns as his tongue wriggles like a fish inside her. Fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise, he likes to leave his mark on her. She can say it any time, stop, _katoh_. She doesn’t.

On her hands and knees on the desk. He’s got his hand wrapped around the base of his cock, they’ve worked out this way he can let loose a bit without accidentally pushing all the way into her, risk tearing something. He’s not sure how it’ll go, his fist driving against her, but the sounds coming from her make him think she’s into it, the push of his cock, the bump of his fist, the friction. He likes it too, the feel of her wet and warm against his fingers, the slap of skin on skin, the noise she makes when he shifts his angle and hits her right there, oh yeah, _that’s_ the noise he's after. The sounds she makes fucking are sometimes so much like the sounds she makes in combat, it’s hard for him to concentrate in a fight. He wraps his free hand around her thigh and bucks into her, thrust punch thrust punch and the wail breaking from her sounding something like a demon as he spills hot inside her with a roar.

Spreadeagled on his bed above the tavern, bound, blindfolded. Just the tip of him in her, teasing, and his hand splayed on her stomach to hold her down, stop her rising into him. He pulls her nipple, pinches, twists and she cries out, he’s sure she’s going to say it, but then it’s back to panting, frustration, a whimper not of pain but of need. He takes her nipple in his mouth, scrapes it with his teeth, bites, pushes a little further into her and she sighs.

Tied up like a present for him, wrists bound to ankles, belly down on the bed. He’s crouched above her, fingers in her hair pulling her head back, fingers inside her, pushing, pounding, fucking. He loves making her come, screaming his name, and her face after, lips parted, flushed, sleepy. Fingers inside her, pushing, pumping, her cunt hot and wet and tight around him. Fingers in her hair, twisting, pulling. She doesn't say it.

_You act like you're in charge, The Iron Bull, but it's really her._

_She decides when, and you measure it carefully, enough to enjoy, to energise, but never to anger._

_She is tied, teased, tantalised, but it's tempered to what she wants. She submits, but you serve._

He looks at her now, naked, a sheen of sweat on her body. Sometimes what she needs is a quick fuck, hard, straightforward, and he’s happy to scratch that itch for her. He doesn’t need her to tell him when, he’s got a pretty good read on her now. They’re both out of breath. Damn, that was good.

“All this time, and you’ve never said _k_ _atoh._ ”

She stretches like a cat, smiling. “You’ll need to try harder.”

He returns the smile. “Good to know.” He runs light fingers along her side and she shivers.

“I’m a better man for having met you, Kadan.” She’s looking up at him, dark eyes suddenly serious. “I just hope this made things a little easier on your end.”

She puts her hand on his, delicate little fingers against his silver skin. “Not ‘this’. _You_ made things easier on my end.” A small squeeze of his hand. “I love you.”

He doesn’t know what it is, this full feeling in his chest, but he likes it. “You going soft on me, Kadan?”

Time was she would have shut down to that, pulled back, made a joke. But she can take it now, he knows. She just looks at him, waiting, eyes dark and soft.

“I love you too.” And he leans in, kisses her.

It feels fucking _great_ to be Tal-Vashoth.


	20. Sorry

_If you must die, sweetheart_

_Die knowing your life was my life's best part_

 

_If you must die_

_Remember your life_

\- Keaton Henson, _You_

 

She’s reeling at how fast it’s come to an end after those long months of preparation. Even more so that they’re standing here alive, when seconds ago the world seemed to be crashing down around them. Are they in the Fade again? But the grey landscape around her seems too substantial, too ordinary for that.

And he’s here, cradling one half of the broken orb, defeat in every line of his body. He places the fragment on the ground carefully, like even broken it’s still precious to him, and he stands with the weariness of an old man.

“It was not supposed to happen this way.”

He sounds tired and sad, so sad.

They’ve just won an improbable victory, the victory they all fought so hard for. And now they’ve won she finds him here, grieving over a relic that’s brought them nothing but pain.

He's looking at her, through her.

“I want you to know that whatever comes, what we had was real.”

Whatever comes? But it's over. She’s still dazed, shaken. She doesn’t have time now for his cryptic nonsense.

"Inquisitor! Are you alive?” A voice - Cassandra? She lives? - comes from below and she turns toward the sound. 

By the time she looks for him again, he’s gone.

 

* * *

 

The road from Crestwood was rocky and sharp. He stuck to the verge where he could, the sparse vegetation gentler on his bare feet.

It seemed for the moment he had become a wandering apostate after all.

His breath ghosted in the night air and he forced his mind clear, focused on the rise and fall of his feet, the tap of his staff on the ground. It would be a long journey back to Skyhold, alone.

The land became hilly, the trees thinning until he walked among rocky outcrops and dry brush. Thoughts came, unbidden. Should he have left here there? She was not far from the Inquisition camp, but she was unarmed, vulnerable. Distressed. He recalled her dark, pleading eyes, the desperation in her voice.

The sense of unreality left him as suddenly as it had come, leaving him on his knees by the roadside, his shoulders heaving.

What had he done?

He could see the shy smile on her bare face, feel her lips soft on his. Hear the cold distance in his voice as he threw her love back at her. Not the gentle disengagement he had played out in his mind, had kept putting off even as he found himself ever more a slave to his infatuation. His love? At times he had thought it such, but it couldn’t be. He could not have loved her and treated her so.

She was real, true, precious, and he had slapped her away with little more concern than one might feel in brushing off an insect, so convinced of his superiority. Such arrogance, such pride. It could not be undone.

He should go back. She had begged him to stay, after all. There would be anger, but also relief. He could explain, it had been a misunderstanding, a temporary madness...

But he had no explanation to offer. And it would be a cruelty, to needlessly prolong this irresponsible attachment. He had made a mistake. He should not have spoken the words he did, should not have kissed her, should certainly not have lain with her, again and again.

He was a monster, that much was certain. The most he could do now was spare her further pain.

 

* * *

 

Leliana’s face is shadowed beneath her hood. It gives her a sinister appearance, likely by design. Rhia is yet to see the Leliana that Josie talks of, the singer, the prankster.

“A moment, my lady.”

My lady. Will she ever get used to the endless titles these people bestow upon her? My lady, to the girl who grew up barefoot in the forest, raised by the whole clan and by none of them, like a stray animal. But that is what she is now, a person of import, and she needs to hear what the Nightingale has uncovered.

They draw aside. The spymaster’s voice is soft as always, furtive, wary of listening ears. “My agents have found no trace of Solas. He has simply vanished.”

Rhia finds herself unsurprised. He always did have a talent for running away.

“If he does not wish to be found, there's likely nothing we can do. But I will keep looking.”

When she speaks she’s grateful to find her voice steady, ambivalent. “It's not worth worrying about.”

“As you wish, Inquisitor.” Leliana moves on to other topics and she nods, responds in a way she hopes is appropriate although she’s thinking of the endless sadness in his eyes, his voice. She hopes that if he’s lost in dreams somewhere that he’s taken precautions to guard his sleeping body. Hopes he's safe.

 

* * *

 

It was days before she sought him out, and he could see the effort it cost her to face him, once more a supplicant, petitioning for answers. He knew she had cut her hair, even in his self-imposed isolation he received a steady stream of gossip from the library above. The boyish style made her look even younger somehow, smaller, her features more delicate.

He wasn’t prepared for the gaunt look of her face, the dark shadows under her eyes. She looked as if she might shatter at a touch.

He straightened from examining the papers on his desk, kept his face impassive.

“Inquisitor?” He couldn’t very well call her _vhenan_ , but it was wrong, too formal. She flinched as if struck, and he cursed himself.

She looked everywhere but at him and he could see her struggling to choose her words. “I’d like to discuss what happened before, Solas.” She picked up a shard from the desk and turned it in her hands, examining it as though it might hold answers.

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be appropriate at this time.” It came out more pompous than he had intended, condescending. He had imagined this conversation with her, not sure if her pride or her curiosity would win out in the end. Now he found himself floundering, struggling to find the words that would maintain the distance between them without twisting the knife further.

“We must focus on what truly matters.” She frowned at this and finally looked at him, her gaze level. He was on dangerous ground but he must persist. “Harden your heart to a cutting edge, and put that pain to good use against Corypheus.”

He watched her consider his answer, find it wanting. Her voice was clipped when she spoke again, her tone carefully measured. “It would help me if you could explain why.”

He should have known that she couldn’t leave this puzzle unexamined. He forced himself to hold her stare, not to look away from the accusation in her eyes.

“The answers would only lead to more questions. An emotional entanglement that would benefit neither of us. The blame is mine, not yours. It was irresponsible and selfish of me." His pleading voice betrayed him at the last. "Let that be enough.” He was begging her, let it go.

He saw that she heard it, his desperation, and she seized on the weakness.

“I don’t know why I even tried to talk with you.”

She was changing tactics, trying to provoke his temper, goad him into revealing more than he wished. And shamefully, it worked. He was exasperated, wanted her gone, to escape from this conversation and the pain in her eyes.

“Because you were hurt. Because I made a selfish mistake. Because you deserve better. Pick any reason.” And there it was, the knife twisting, the unnecessary barb. He was a fool.

She watched him, mouth crooked, voice soft and mocking to keep the tears at bay.

“You really don't let anybody see under that polite mask you wear, do you?” 

The words escaped him before he could question their wisdom, his voice soft.

“You saw more than most.”

He felt a moment where it all could shift, he could relent, allow her back in, soothe the pain he had caused her. Instead he broke their gaze and turned back to his papers, and when he spoke again it was businesslike, dismissive.

“Let me know if I can be of any more help in our final fight.”

He heard her light footsteps, the open and shut of the door. She was gone.

 

* * *

 

She takes her leave from the party, the first to go even though the sky outside grows lighter by the minute.

“Hey, Kadan.” She pauses at the door to her quarters, turns to face him. “You got a minute?”

She smiles. “For you, always.”

On the balcony she leans back on the cool stone and he props one hand on the wall above her, slides the other around her waist and draws her close. He looks down at her, his expression intense.

“You’ve stood strong against everything. Never flinched.”

 _I flinched plenty_ , she wants to say, but he he stops her with a gentle thumb on her lip.

“You’re the toughest, wisest, most beautiful person I’ve ever met, Kadan.”

His voice is a low rumble and the warmth that floods over her has nothing to do with the morning sun.

“And I can’t tell you how proud I’m gonna be, watching you out there, addressing the whole Inquisition…” he leans close to her neck, breathes in slowly, “...with this big, old love bite on your neck.”

She laughs and closes her eyes, leans into him, thinking _This is real. What we have is real._

* * *

 

Rumours floated downstairs, fell upon his unwilling ears as he sat at his desk. The Inquisitor and the Qunari mercenary. He couldn’t say what disgusted him more, his own jealousy or the thought of them together, because he couldn’t stop thinking of it, those huge brutish hands on her soft skin, and worse.

He was restless, pacing, aware of his own folly even as he nursed an anger towards them both but mostly her, couldn’t she see that she debased herself? But of course she could. She was mocking him, taunting him.

He found he couldn’t sleep, wishing to calm himself in the Fade but when he closed his eyes he was plagued by images of them, lewd, obscene. On the lowest nights he found himself hunched on his small bed, crying out in the dark, spilling his shame into his hand. Only then could he fall into a fitful sleep.

When she returned from the Emerald Graves he saw that the colour had returned to her face, and something about her was new, peaceful, some of the old tension gone. He watched her forge friendships with their companions, and his own isolation seemed more stark in comparison. He resented her for thriving without him. Resented himself for the thought.

Finally given a task he threw himself into it, only to find things once more slipping out of his control. He had been wrong, had misunderstood Cole's nature. And she would make him more like herself, mortal, fragile, banal. Was she mad? Words of spite, building in both of them, spoken in haste and regretted.

That was how she found him that night, ragged and exhausted, sorrowful, and when she offered herself he fell on her like a man starved. Surprised as she was when it continued in the weeks that followed.

He was losing himself, spiralling into her, his old restraint lost. There would be consequences.

When the cost came it was not what he feared. The night in Ghilan’nain’s Grove, the cry she tore from him, _ar lath ma_ , nothing he hadn't said before but now it was forbidden between them, an obscenity.

And as he felt her still beneath him, he knew that it was over.

 

* * *

 

Bull's not in his usual seat in the Tavern so she goes upstairs, thinking to find him in his room. One flight of stairs, two, and there's Cole in the corner, standing. He speaks, and his voice is strange and distant.

“I’m sorry, Cole, but with your gift, I fear that you might see the path I now must walk in solitude forever.”

She’s frozen, foot stuck on the last stair. There’s a familiar quality to his voice, a lilt, a poetry not his own.

“This fate is mine alone. Indeed, I would not wish it on an enemy, much less someone that I once cared for." _Once cared for._  

"Though you reach out in compassion, I must now insist that you _forget_.”

She’s barely breathing, frightened of breaking the spell, but it’s too late, it’s broken now. Cole is suddenly himself again, confused.

“I - I’m...what were we talking about?” He smiles at her brightly. “I’m ready to help people when you are!”

A brief touch on his arm. “Thank you, Cole.” She goes in search of Bull.

 

* * *

 

She sought him out before they left Skyhold, a last private moment before the battle. The die was cast, Corypheus had issues his final challenge and this time, one of them must fall. Would it be she? If she fell, he thought, all the world must follow.

“So,” she said, “this is it.”

“Indeed it is.”

She hopped up on the edge of his desk, regarding him with head tilted like a curious bird. “Are we ready, do you think?”

He leaned back in his chair. “ _You_ are ready.”

She fidgeted and swung her legs. “Do you have a moment to talk?”

“Of course.” But she was silent for a long time, watching her feet.

Finally she spoke. “It occurs to me that we might not have another chance to speak like this. And I wanted to tell you that I think I understand.” A silence. “You were afraid. You have secrets, and you needed to keep them from me. And to do that, you needed to be away from me.”

It was near enough to the truth. When she looked up at him he nodded slowly, not trusting himself to speak.

“It was badly done. It was strange, and sudden, and…” Her eyes closed and he could see the memory still burned her. She glanced at him again. “But I don't think you meant it that way. I don't think you meant to be cruel. I don't believe that of you, Solas.”

He wasn't sure if she wanted him to respond, but after a pause she rushed on. “And perhaps that's why I didn't see it at first, and I should have. Because I kept things from you, too. You thought me strong, and brave, and wise, and I was none of those things.”

At this he would stop her, but she silenced him. “No. You owe me the chance to speak.” She waited for his small nod, continued.

“I was afraid, and out of my depth, and I couldn't leave because you needed me to close the rifts, but everyone was looking to me to lead, to make decisions, and they wouldn't take no for an answer. So it became important that I was that person, a leader, even while I was just running from one fucked-up situation to another, trying to keep alive. Keep everyone alive. And I couldn't, and…”

Her eyes were bright with tears. “Still everyone followed me. And I couldn't ask anyone for help. Not until I was so far down I had no choice. I should thank you for that, I suppose.”

So in the end he had wounded her as much with his blindness as with his words.

He had to ask, had to pick at the scars, aware the question might make her angry. “Did you tell all this to him?”

Her voice held no hint of accusation, but the answer still stung. “I didn't have to.”

What was there to say? He looked down at his hands, ashamed to meet her eyes.

“I don't want you to think I say this to cause you pain, or because I want you tell me something in return," she said. "It's just that we might not come back, and I needed you to know...it troubled me, the way you saw me. You had this idea that I was perfect, and I disappointed you again and again, but you looked past it. And I think...I think that you needed to think me better than everyone because you have this idea that people are unworthy somehow, _less_ , somehow, than the two of us. You wanted to believe that this…” she opened her hand and the anchor crackled faintly, glowing green, “...changed me into someone special, different. More than just a Dalish.”

 _You are more,_ he wanted to say. _So much more._

“But people are just people, Solas. We're limited by our surroundings. We're flawed, we're petty...including you.” She smiled, softening the barb. “But there's something more in everyone if you look. Perhaps this mark did shape me, because it brought me here. To you, to..." She gestured vaguely, encompassing Skyhold, the Inquisition, all the insanity of the past year. "But who's to say another person in my place couldn’t have led just as well? Better?”

She was wrong. He needed her to be wrong. This world could not be filled with others such as she.

She looked down at the mark, pulsing faintly, curled her fingers back over it.

"This is a part of me now, but it's not who I am."

When she looked up she was smiling.

“I wanted to say that I'm glad to have you by my side. Thank you, Solas. For everything.” And she leant in and kissed him on the lips gently, chastely. Forgiveness.

 _Vhenan._ He was silent, troubled. _Ar lath ma._

My heart. I love you. I love you. You are a wonder and a blessing and a curse. Please survive, my love, just a little longer. And know that I am sorry for what I must do once this is done.

 

* * *

 

His room is unchanged for now. So full of him, yet empty, the fat candles on his desk unlit. She trails her fingers over the warm wood of the desk, the spines of his books.

She climbs the scaffolding, sits cross-legged and examines the frescoes on the walls.  _Skyhold is her fortress. These are her actions._ And the last panel, unfinished. A dragon, run through with a sword. And another dragon? A wolf? Standing over. Did he mean to come back then, after the last battle, or had he just run out of time?

_What we had was real._

And it was. His hand warm on her wrist as he directed her to close the first rift. Their uneasy flirtation in Haven, his calming presence by her side. Their slow dance around each other, approach and retreat, the rain on their skin, the soft tangle of sheets in the morning sun, his lips against hers. The cold sickness when he pulled away, the broken plea in his voice when he couldn't tell her why. Even in the fury of their reunion, circling and scratching at each other, two dragons colliding in the sky. There was no lie in that.

_What we had was real._

But no more.


	21. Strength

“You've changed, lethallan.”

Rhia’s hand flew to her cheek, bare of the vallaslin that had marked her coming of age. How would she explain this? The truth could only confuse them, hurt them.

Keeper Deshanna shook her head. “Not that, child. There's something more to you now. You've grown, since you left us.” She smiled sadly. “You were a hard little thing from the first. All teeth and claws. But there's a new strength to you. I see now how these people came to choose you as their leader.”

The garden was still in the morning sun, quiet but for the low hum of insects and murmured conversation. She was still unsure this was real, shocked when the messenger had led her here. It was a long journey from the Free Marches, the passage across the Waking Sea rough and unpleasant. “You should have told me you were coming.”

“Would you have seen me if I had?”

“Of course I would.” She was surprised to find it was the truth. “But it's such a long way, only to leave so soon.”

“The Wycome Council has some business with the Inquisition. I wished to come in person.” The Keeper still had an ageless quality about her, though there was more grey than ever in her dark hair. “I saw your father.”

Rhia stiffened, easily falling back into defensive sarcasm. “Oh? He's real, then?”

The Keeper sighed. “It was a great shock to him, losing your mother. They had such love for each other. Such hopes for you.”

“And what would she have said, to know he ran away even before her body was burned?”

To her surprise, Deshanna laughed. “Oh, I doubt she would have said much. But he would have known the full measure of her fury, I am certain. She was very much like you.”

Rhia was silent. The old hurt still had power, after all.

“He is Keeper now, in his new clan. They stick to the old ways, keep to the forests where they can. But word reached him of you and he sought me out.”

“What does he want?” Whatever it was, she would take pleasure in denying it.

“Nothing. He had questions. Wanted to know if you were well, if we knew more of you than what he had gathered from rumour. Obviously he has regrets - I will tell you if you wish to know.”

“No.”

The keeper understood. There was a comfortable silence as they sat side-by-side on the stone bench, already warmed by the sun.

After a time Rhia spoke again. “I never thanked you. All of you. For taking care of me, for raising me.”

The older woman blinked slowly, surprised. “It is our way, da’len.”

“Still. Thank you.” _The Dalish in their fashion may still have guided you._ She laid her hand over the Keeper’s. “Now. Do you have some time? Are you hungry? Tell me about this council business.”

 

There were more than usual around the table, a special occasion, not their regular game. The Nightingale was leaving in the morning and she had joined them for this final gathering. She was to set aside the title of Spymaster for the Inquisition and take on a new title, Divine Victoria, but tonight she was just Leliana. Her hood was back and her red head was bent close to Josie’s dark curls, the two of them chattering like sisters. Even Vivienne was here, disdaining the ale for a tall goblet of Montsimmard red and taking coin from Cullen with ruthless efficiency.

Rainier, too, would leave soon to join the Wardens. For now he laughed as Cassandra poked an angry finger in Varric’s chest, an old disagreement over a chapter of _Hard in Hightown_ that had earned the Seeker’s disapproval.

“ _Vishante kaffas,"_ Dorian was explaining to Sera. “It’s Tevene, relics of the old tongue. We still use the colourful phrases.”

“And it means what?”

“Literally? You shit on my tongue.”

She cackled, delighted. “Why not just say that?”

“A mystery for the ages.” He turned to Rhia. She was perched on Bull’s lap, ostensibly to make room but she enjoyed his warmth, the big hand wrapped around her waist. “So, Inquisitor. The end of an era?”

She leaned back against Bull’s chest, smiled. “I hope not. It would be nice if we could get everyone together again some day.”

Not everyone. His absence was less jarring, here, where he never joined them. But they still felt it.

And of course, Cole’s voice, sing-song. “Voice ringing with fullness from both worlds, guiding me to the shining places. He calls himself Pride.”

Dorian smiled, clapped him gently on the shoulder. “Indeed.”

“And what about you, Dorian?” she asked. “Will you return to Tevinter soon?”

He looked around the room, sat back and took a long draught of his ale, grimacing at the taste. When he looked up there was a sparkle in his eye. “Oh I don’t know. I think I’d like to stay...just a little longer.”

This was happiness, she realised. Fleeting, but no less real. The world saved for now, her lover at her back, her odd collection of friends around her. Family.

 

They reached her quarters and shed their clothes with an ease born of practice. He picked her up effortlessly and she wrapped her legs around him, let him carry her out onto the dark balcony. He propped her up on the balustrade, knelt and ran his warm, wet tongue between her legs, hands gripping her thighs.

She was aware of the empty air behind her, the long fall to the rocks below. She had given those rocks a lot of thought, in the past. Now she had the strength to stand on her own, but she was still endlessly grateful to have him here, solid, reassuring, and oh so thorough. She curled her fingers around the tips of his horns, warmth flooding through her in the cold night.

“Bull?”

“Mmmm?”

“Don’t let go.”

He pulled back and she moaned a little in disappointment. He stood, bending down to rest his forehead against hers. “Never, Kadan.”

He pushed her legs wider and eased inside her, strong hands wrapped around her as she lay back, opened her arms to the night sky. He wouldn’t let her fall.


	22. Scream

_Back to the Winter Palace? Never good. Pack bees._

 

“The breach is long gone, yet Skyhold’s army remains. Fereldan can't continue to ignore soldiers on its borders.” Rhia couldn’t see a trace of the charming young Bann Leliana had told her of. This Arl Teagan was not just older but severe, sour-faced, disapproving.

“The inquisition has grown.” Diplomacy. Niceness before knives. How much simpler it was to stick your adversaries full of arrows. “I can see how its presence might cause concern.” How she hated Val Royeaux, and ironically the man causing her most trouble at present was Fereldan.

“Then you understand why we must demand a reduction of your military forces. A power without allegiance to either Fereldan or Orlais? Even I see neither of our countries can let it rest.” She knew, had discussed as much with the King, it couldn’t have been so long ago? King Alistair was self-deprecating, charming, easy to like even after their awkward start at Redcliffe. She had hoped his uncle might be similar in character, but no such luck. Somewhere between the fifth blight and today, Arl Teagan had lost his charm.

He glowered at her now. “I won't keep you longer. We'll have words enough when the Exalted Council begins.”

Oh, no doubt.

She made her way through the gardens. In the daytime there was something too cheerful about the Winter Palace, all manicured and gilded and painted in bright colours like a noble child’s plaything. It didn’t help that she herself was dressed like a toy soldier - all this time and the Inquisition couldn’t come up with better uniforms? It felt unreal, too far removed from the outdoor spaces where she was most at home or even the comforting stone walls of Skyhold.

She sought out Leliana - Divine Victoria, Her Perfection. A more difficult title to live up to than Inquisitor.

“They seek to tear the Inquisition down. You feel it, no? Fear.” Divine Victoria was still softly spoken, furtive, every inch the Spymaster even in her ostentatious robes.

“Anyone with their wits should fear us,” Rhia said. She felt it. “We command more people than some countries.”

“It is not our secrets, nor our soldiers. There have always been spymasters and private armies." Leliana watched her, searching. "They are afraid of nothing so much as the hand that directs it all.”

She sighed. “Mine.”

“Already your actions have begun to reshape Thedas. Your influence is felt everywhere.” No point in protesting, _I didn’t set out to reshape Thedas. This was always bigger than me._

“It was only a matter of time before they moved. I am surprised it took this long. The Inquisition’s time is coming to an end.”

Really? For the first time today, she felt hopeful. “Is that the decree of Her Perfection Divine Victoria? That the Inquisition be dissolved?”

The Nightingale detected her relief, she knew. “As Divine it is my duty to think of Thedas - and all her peoples. We set out to restore peace, and now peace is upon us.” Her eyes were kind, but too astute. “You and I have come so far, through the darkness together. It is time for us both to live in the light.”

To live in the light. It sounded like a dream, but what did it mean exactly? Freedom from the Inquisition? To do what, to go where?

 

_Leliana knows something. Knew it. Inquisition’s in trouble._

 

This side of the gardens was less pretentious, a place for the soldiers and tradespeople. The little tavern was packed with an odd assortment of patrons, guests of the Exalted Council and their various hangers-on.

“Hey, Kadan.” It was so good to see Bull again. He’d been off on Chargers business near Lake Calenhad, it must be weeks now. She’d been close to climbing the walls.

“Hey, yourself.” She leaned on the bar, wishing this damned uniform showed some cleavage. "Varric gave me a key. It does...something...to the Kirkwall harbour. Oh and I’m a Red Jenny now! Wait, am I supposed to tell you that?”

“Good work, boss! Remind me not to get on your bad side.” Bull nodded towards the front of the tavern. “So, Cole and the bard?”

“Looks that way.”

He gestured vaguely. “Do you think they…?”

“Rather not think about it.” There might come a day when she thought of Cole as something other than innocent, childlike. Today was not that day.

Bull smiled, and she felt the familiar warmth flood through her. “Krem’s gonna be disappointed.”

“Krem likes Cole?”

He grumbled at her and she winked. She tapped her fingers on the bar, considering. “What about Harding? She single?”

“Hmm, think so.” Bull scratched his chin. “Reckon she'd go for a Vint?”

“I'm standing right here, chief!” Krem protested.

“We see you, Krem.”

She regarded Krem with a critical eye. “I don't see why not. She thinks Dorian’s pretty.”

“Dorian _is_ pretty.”

“True. But Krem can drink and talk at the same time. Boy’s clearly got talent.”

Bull huffed. “You've given this some thought.”

“The serving girls in the Herald’s Rest have, I can tell you that much.”

_“Chief.”_

She relented. “How are the Chargers, Krem? Everyone happy?”

“No complaints, Your Worship. The inquisition’s been good to us." He half-turned his head, still keeping a watchful eye on the tavern. "We'd disband and join the Inquisition officially, but the chief gets this sad-dog look when we suggest it.”

“The loyalty is touching, Krem.”

She fixed Bull with a pointed stare. “So they’ve given me quarters just up there.” Nodding towards the palace.

He brightened. “Is there a chandelier?”

“Not sure. But there’s a _very big bed._ ”

“Still standing right here, chief…”

“Keep an eye on things for us, Krem. I need words with the boss.”

 

_Don't say the Inquisitor’s hand looks bad._

_It looks very bad._

 

Rhia ignored the twinge of pain shooting up her left arm, focused on the gruesome scene before her. Echoes of her first visit to Halamshiral.

“A Qunari warrior in full armour. How did he get into the Winter Palace?”

Leliana was in her element, neck deep in intrigue. But then, when was she not in her element?

"This is a warrior, not a spy. Part of the Antaam, the Qunari military. Most of his wounds come from a fight against someone using magic, but at least a few are from a blade." She coolly regarded the corpse, slumped undignified against the wall in a pool of blood. "He was badly hurt, separated from his allies, and made it here before he died. But how?”

“We need to find out what's going on.” Fucking Winter Palace and its fucking drama, could things never be straightforward? “Can Josephine manage the diplomats while I look around?” Oh, Josephine. She was going to kill them.

“She will be fine. It's all speeches and posturing for the first few days anyway.”

_And murder, you forgot the murder._

Leliana looked at her, the faintest curve of a smile on her lips. “I think the Exalted Council may be more exciting than we expected.”

Excitement. Fan-fucking-tastic.

 

“Another Qunari, dressed like the one in the Winter Palace.” His dead eyes were wide with terror.

Bull looked down at the corpse. “He's Karashok. A foot soldier. Must've been in the same squad.”

They were in a stairway of some sort, not sure yet where the eluvian had taken them. To the crossroads first, an odd place of twisting walkways and everything colourful, singing somehow but only to the elves. Sera didn’t like it. Rhia wasn’t sure yet, but at least it was a respite from Arl Teagan’s prating.

Bull grinned. “Oh, this is gonna be fun. The old team together again to kick some ass! How ‘bout it, Kadan?”

Dorian smirked. “I'd forgotten about the pet names.”

“It's a title of _honour_ for the woman I love.” Bull sounded almost offended. It was sexy.

“I'll bet! Get honour and stay on ‘er.” Sera giggled wickedly.

They emerged, blinking, into bright sunshine. Seconds later there was a faint boom, a wave of magic spreading from a tower far in the distance and dispersing in the clear air.

Rolling green hills scattered with fir trees surrounded a turquoise lake. They stood at the top of another tower, before them an eluvian and a frozen tableau of...statues? No, these had been more Qunari warriors, now grey and petrified. The faint stench of sulphur, smoke rising from the flagstones.

“Scorch marks everywhere.” She spoke the obvious. “This is the work of a mage.”

“A powerful one,” Dorian agreed. “I can still feel the heat crackling.”

She was starting to feel certain this was not going to be over in time to appease the Exalted Council.

 

_Elf-loovians and ruins. Ruins can get off._

 

“ _Vashedas!_ The Inquisition doesn't leave alive!”

Not the most polite greeting she’d ever received, but it was awfully good of the Qunari to threaten them in the common tongue. She had hoped for a little more dialogue, but the warriors swarming from the elven ruins didn't seem interested in talking.

Bull swung his greatsword with tight-lipped control, an unnatural precision. Rhia recalled his years fighting against the Tal-Vashoth in Seheron, mindless savages broken free of the Qun. She had no doubt many of them were as feral as he believed. But now he was the Tal-Vashoth, in conflict with those who were once his people. She could not imagine his thoughts. The best she could do for now was join in the fray, taking down a Karashok with an arrow through the neck.

At last they were vanquished, Qunari blood spilled on the ancient tiles.

“Why did those Qunari attack the Inquisition on sight?”

“No idea.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead. “They weren't Tal-Vashoth, though. This might be a rogue group, but they _think_ they're following the Qun.”

She didn’t ask how he knew.

Sera grimaced at the frescoed walls. “Wolves and elves, elves and wolves.” She looked to Dorian. “Why does everything here look like - ” He cut her off with a small shake of his head.

Rhia was occupied with the puzzle before her, but she saw the marked slaves, the Dread Wolf taking their vallaslin. That much had been true, then. A click as the passage opened. No time to dwell on it now.

More Qunari, a pitched battle in the underground chamber. The papers they uncovered, a mix of Qunlat and the common tongue, were not reassuring.

“This is crazy!” Bull groaned, frustrated. “They're acting like we're at war!”

“Are we?” They were bruised, battered, covered in the blood of their enemies. It certainly felt like war.

He sighed, defeated. “I don't know, boss. I wish I did.”

 

_Qunari and elfy things? Make sense, things!_

 

Sera was perched on the table in the Gilded Horn. “Hello and shhhhh! I'm trying to figure out why everyone's acting so weird. I mean besides because Qunari assassins and...everything.” She swung her legs. “You see it, right? There's something going with the elf servants. Makes sense after that ruin, right?”

Rhia lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, we should definitely keep an eye on those _elves_.”

“Yes, yes, you're ever so clever. Arse.” She wasn’t pacified. “Point is, the servants have no complaints. No asking for a Jenny. They serve this lot, but don't want them done for anything.”

Rhia smiled. “So...the nobles are nice and the servants are happy?”

The look Sera gave her was pitying. “Two things that have never been true. Mark that I said it. We're fighting Qunari, but something else is on the up.”

Bull was hunched behind the bar, dejected. “Wish I hadn't burned all my contacts with the Ben-Hassrath. Be nice to know what they're doing right now.”

“Yeah, but then you'd be on their side, chief.” Krem had a point.

“Yes, but I'd know things.” He wrapped an arm around Rhia's waist, pulled her in close. “I like knowing things.” He twirled her hair around his finger, smiling. She'd let it grow out in the last two years, almost to its previous length. He liked something he could hang onto. And he thought it was pretty.

She kissed his cheek. “Are you ready to go again?”

“Oh. Well sure Kadan, if that's what you want…we should probably keep chasing up this Qunari thing soon though.”

“That's what I meant, Bull.” She laughed, whispered in his ear, “I'm sure we can find time for the other thing later, though.”

“Right. Sure thing, boss!”

 

_Dwarfy ruins now? Mirrors can get off._

 

Somewhere underground? The deep roads again, ugh. All yawning chasms and treacherous paths, dark, musty tunnels and caves. And where there were caves, there were always giant spiders and rotten little deepstalkers.

“Why'd an elfy mirror dump us in the middle of dwarfy things?” Sera was equally unimpressed. “And why do we keep going through them?”

Good question.

The scant light reflected off gleaming statues, wolves with their heads thrown back, howling. Odd things to find in a dwarven mine. The lines were sleek, not like the geometrical shapes of dwarven design. She didn’t have a lot of time to ponder it.

“Watch your feet, everyone!” Dorian cried. Of course, the deep roads, the inevitable beshitted deepstalkers.

“How desperate are the Qunari, to work in these conditions?” he complained when they had finally put down the last of them.

“Dorian?” she said sweetly. “You know I love you.”

“Naturally.”

“So could you please not reanimate the _motherfucking_ deepstalkers.”

“Ah. Noted.”

Their path led ever down, twisting until she lost all sense of direction, focused on not stepping off a ledge in the inky dark.

“Who finds a place like this and digs in?” Sera complained. “What are they doing, and how's it not stupid?”

_I don't care if you serve Fen'Harel or not. Someone has to stop her._

Why did they think the Inquisition served Fen'Harel? If Mythal was real, was he real too? What they found in the elven towers certainly suggested that he had been, at one time.

Behind her, Bull let out a growl of frustration. “Keep feeling like I'm going to bang my horns on this crap.”

“Let me go up front, then,” Sera said. “I'm as good in a fight as you are.”

“Damn right. You're about the most dangerous person I know.” He grinned. “A real _Sera-Bas!_ ”

Rhia smiled despite herself, shaking her head. “That's dreadful, Bull.”

“Try to stitch my lips, and you're a pincushion. With arrows.” Sera was unfazed.

Bull _hmphed_. “They don't make a thread strong enough to hold your tongue.”

“That's what she said. I think.”

Rhia was grateful to have them with her, this last time. She hoped they would all be there for each other, when...

She looked down at her gloved hand. It throbbed quietly even now, the pain accompanied by a faint, spreading nausea.

“Are you at all concerned about fighting your people, Bull?” Dorian asked.

“I'm not Qunari any more. Whatever they're doing, I'm ready to stop.”

She balled her hand into a fist, forced a smile. “Let's blow this shit up then, Kadan.”

 

_Qunari all over everyone's things. Who steps on their old stuff?_

 

The advisors had taken the news as well as could be expected. She faced the ire of Orlais and Fereldan alike, and now they had uncovered _gaatlok_ , smuggled into the Winter Palace.

She needed a drink. Was that a good idea? Yes. Yes it was.

Sera poured her a cup without having to ask. “Qunari first. Mix with elves. Add dwarves. Ugh, doesn't anyone drink their booze one at a time any more?” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “And the elves here are still squirrelly.”

Rhia caught Bull’s eye, nodded.

“We'll talk later,” she said to Sera. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Count on seeing you, yeah?” There was a note of something in Sera’s voice, a plea. There’d be time, later, to talk about it. There'd be time.

 

_Not how a Jenny is supposed to go. They're not supposed to go._

 

She took a seat next to Bull. ”What can you tell me about the Qunari we're dealing with?”

“These aren't Ben-Hassrath.” He was detached, professional. If he had any feelings about fighting Qunari, he would save them for when the job was done. “They're specialists, working for a Viddasala. Ben-Hassrath handle normal security. The Viddasala’s people focus entirely on magic. They find it, they study it, they neutralise it.” He took a long swig of his drink. “And they must be desperate if they're using eluvians. I'd expect them to shatter any mirror they find.”

A burning pain lanced up her arm and she winced. He caught the sudden sharp intake of breath, looked at her with concern. “It's getting worse, isn't it?”

“It's fine.”

“Don't hold out on me, Kadan. You look like crap.”

“Thanks for that.” She looked at her gloved hand in trepidation, never sure now when the next attack would come.

“Hey.” He took her face in his hands, turned her to look at him. “Even looking like crap, you're beautiful.” She held his gaze, committing him to memory.

“We have some time.” She placed her hand over his. “My room?”

His eye darkened. “Too far.” He stood, took her by the hand and led her out of the tavern, across to the small room in the garden set aside for her things. He towered over Charter, growled, “Out.”

The elf stood with arms crossed, unimpressed. She looked to Rhia.

“Um, thank you, Charter. I'll need the room for a moment, to speak with my, er...with Bull.”

Charter nodded and slipped out silently, closing the door behind her. Rhia giggled. “Do you think she's going to report this to Leliana?”

His hands were already working on her sash, a wicked gleam in his eye. “She won't need to. I'm gonna make sure _everybody_ hears.”

“Under the circumstances I'm not sure that's the most - ” She was silenced by his kiss, big fingers tangled in her hair.

 

_Not right. Do everything for everyone, get sick. Not right._

 

She cried out in agony, the pain driving her to her knees.

Dorian was at her side instantly, Bull hovering back, frowning. “Are you hurt?”

She brushed off their concern, standing and doing her best to appear steady. “I'm not sure. It's stopped, at least.”

Dorian was looking up at the sphere in the centre of the courtyard as it crackled with a green energy. “Did you notice? Your anchor is flaring up near magic. Elven magic.”

Hard not to notice. Her skin was clammy, waves of nausea persisting although the worst of the pain had subsided. “What's causing this?”

“I'm not sure. Tell us if it gets worse.”

She forced a smile. “If it gets worse than this, I'm sure you'll hear about it.”

_“What is this Veil? What has Fen'Harel done?”_

Through the pain and sickness she fought to understand, to piece together the puzzle. Words, shapes, foreign but so familiar. They passed through mirror after mirror until she could barely remember where she'd been and where she hadn't, too much effort going into keeping them on the right path.

It was a wonder, though. Even ancient, crumbling, the library held so much lost knowledge, so much magic. Solas would have loved to have seen this.

“Look at this place,” Dorian marvelled. “Now that we have so many samples...how hard would it be to build eluvians of our own?”

Sera was predictably unimpressed. “Dorian. How about you not be so _Tevinter_ about the ancient _bullshit_?”

He shrugged. “After these past few years, it would just be good to create something magical that is also helpful for a change.”

Bull was at her side, vigilant, wary of another collapse. “Next time we get the gang back together, let's do a dragon instead,” he grumbled. “Dragons are _fun_.”

They exited another eluvian and she screamed, long and loud, clutching her arm to her chest. He was there at once, holding her up. Tears pricked her eyes.

“That's really not getting better, boss.” His warm hands supported her.

“The pain's stopped,” she lied. There was too much to do, they couldn't focus on this. Later, there would be time later.

Sera was wringing her hands, panicked. “It's worse, right? You need to...not get worse. Please?”

She brushed off their concerns. “Come on. We need to follow the Viddasala.”

_"If we get out of here, I will end Fen'Harel."_

There was an idea growing in her, a thought trying to take form, if only she could grasp it through the fog of pain.

 

“Survivor of the breach. Herald of change. Hero of the South.”

The Viddasala was imperious, scornful.

“Your duty is done, Inquisitor. It is time to end your magic.”

Had they been alone she would have laughed in her face. _End my magic? My magic will end me before you get the chance. The anchor is eating me alive._

“Do you believe closing the breach solved everything, that its consequences stopped there?”

She had such resolve. Rhia's own uncertainty, her self-doubt, could not prevail before the iron demands of the Qun.

She must set it all aside.

The Viddasala would not succeed in this, would not be allowed to spread chaos in the name of order. _Hero of the South_ , she named her, mocking. So that's what Rhia would be. She would live. She would live long enough to end this, if no longer.

 

_Nobs have that look. Ending coming._

 

It was a shriek this time, torn unwilling from her lips as lightning shot through her, left her cold and shaking. At least they were quiet now, watching her almost as though she was dangerous.

She was.

“We save Ferelden, and they're angry. We save Orlais, and they're angry. We close the Breach twice, and my own hand wants to kill me!" Once the frustration, the fear, the fury spilled forth, it was hard to stop. "Could one thing in this _fucking_ world just stay fixed?”

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes. When she opened them again her gaze was steely.

“Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a world to save. Again.”

 

_Can't put arrows in it, put them everywhere else._

_I will never miss._

_I will make them know Rhia ~~had~~ HAS friends. _


	23. Shattered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second last chapter, I couldn't leave you without some smut.

Another flare, razor blades in her veins. She falls, gasping for breath.

“Kadan! You all right?” His hand on her shoulder, he doesn't know how hard he's gripping her.

She staggers up. So close now. “We should hurry.”

He's talking, keeping her distracted. Or focused. Is it the same thing? _Fuck, it hurts._

 _"_ I wish I could say I'm surprised that Viddasala wants to murder everyone, but it makes sense. We tell stories about how corrupt the South is. Who wouldn't want to kill the evil nobles and save the people?”

Arrows. Arrows in all of them even when her left hand can barely hold the bow steady.

It comes again and she wants to stay silent, keep their minds on the task at hand but it feels like her arm is being crushed, shattered and it's ripped out of her, an animal cry of fear and pain.

“Stop hurting! Please.” Sera, begging. Bull's lips are tightly compressed, his fingers curled white around his sword.

She doesn't speak this time, just grits her teeth and presses on.

 

_That first night. Somehow she's lying next to him. She's been lost, he knows, looking for something to cling to. Curled inside herself like a wounded animal. He thought she'd want soothing, holding, someone to put the pieces back together, but that's not it. Right now she's looking to fuck, not make love._

_He eases a finger inside her and she sighs. Not much room to move, but at least lubrication's not going to be a problem. She looks at him with a little frown. “I'm not sure how this is going to work.”_

_He chuckles. “Really? I thought you and -”_

_Crap. It's a mistake. Blame the liquor, it's even stronger than he remembered. This isn't about her and Solas. It's about her, just her._

_But she's laughing. “You know what I mean.”_

_“I've done this before.” It's true. Three elves this week, two of them at the same time. “You'd be surprised what you can take.” To demonstrate he pushes a second finger inside her, circles her clit with his thumb and at the sound she makes he's not sure he can hold off much longer._

_He's been with elves before but the kitchen girls are rounder, softer. She's lean, hard, athletic. Tits not big but firm, perfectly formed. He could probably fit a whole one in his mouth. He hopes there'll be another chance to do this, he'd like to take his time with her, get to know that taut little body. But for now it's about what she needs, and she needs it now._

_He leans over her, weight resting on one arm._

_“Ready, boss?”_

_She gives him an impish smile, bats her lashes dramatically. “Take me.”_

_“Can do.”_

 

And there she is finally, the one they're here to stop, the Viddasala. She ignores the rest of them, looks to Bull.

He looks back at her, his face unreadable.

“Hissrad! Now, please. _Vinek kathas._ ”

 

 

_A quiet afternoon. She's lying back on the bed and he's got her legs resting over his shoulders, his tongue teasing along her slit. To start with she wasn't sure he was getting as much out of this as she was, but he's convinced her now, he wouldn't devote so much of his time to something he didn't enjoy._

_She hasn't been to see_ him _today, he's kept her busy. He understands it's something she needs for now, working out her demons, like when she helped him after the Fade. Invite someone to beat the shit out of you and the hurt’s manageable, controlled. It's not a physical hurt she needs from Solas but it's no less savage. She'll get it out of her system eventually, and he'll be here._

_Solas doesn't get this, not since he pushed her away, left her hurting. He doesn't get to hold her, feel her thighs quiver. He doesn't get the slow arch of her back, her little fingers clawing the sheets, those soft cries and whimpers she can't hold in. Those are all for him._

 

 

_Hissrad. It means liar._

She thinks back to that day on the Storm Coast, the elf and his unsubtle barbs aimed at Bull, the Inquisition. The split second decision she had to make, not sure of the implications, the Qunari alliance shattered.

To spare the odd little family he'd collected she'd cost him his culture, his identity. Did it trouble him after all this time? What if he could go back?

It was dangled before him now, an invitation. Hissrad, please.

_It means liar._

 

 

_He goes out to meet them when she gets back from the Exalted Plains and he can see that it's over, this thing with Solas. He claps a big hand on her shoulder, invites her for a drink._

_That night she's nestled in his lap in front of the fire, little legs wrapped around his waist, little arms around his neck, her warm little cunt snug around him. He tilts her face up for a kiss, wipes the tears away with his thumbs. She looks up at him, eyes shining, and he wishes they could stay joined like this forever._

_“Kadan.”_

_“Kadan?” It's the first time he's called her that._

_“Kadan. My heart.”_

_She smiles. My heart. There was another word for it, once, but that doesn't matter any more._

 

 

“Hissrad! Now, please. _Vinek kathas_.” Attack _._

He doesn't hesitate. “Not a chance. Ma'am.”

She makes him a silent promise. If somehow she comes out of this alive, they are going to have _so much_ sex.

 

  

_That night, a quiet corner of the Winter Palace gardens, just about deserted now. It's nearly dark but the sky is full of a different light, pink and green and blue, the whistle and soft boom of fireworks. They're heading back into the eluvian one more time, soon, but for now she's clenched around him, cries muffled against his chest. He's holding her tight, she's coming apart at the edges, her eyes bright with fever, nails digging hard into her palm as he rocks her against him._

_She's so hot, so tight, so wet, his Kadan. So strong, so brave, so beautiful. This might be the last time._

_They straighten their clothing, breathless. She laughs, shakes her head._

_“You know, Cassandra thought we were getting married.”_

_He plucks a leaf from her hair. “That something you want, Kadan?”_

_“Hadn't thought about it.” She reties her sash. “You?”_

_“You're my Kadan,” he says. "That's a choice I make every day. I don't need to be bound to it.” He puts a hand on her face. She feels fevered, clammy. He forces a smile, for her. “But if you like the binding…”_

_Her answering smile is shaky, but real. “I think we've established that I do.”_

_“Seriously, boss.”_

_She squeezes his hand, winks. “Trust me, I'm getting everything I need.”_

_For the first time he's afraid, really afraid he's going to lose her._

 

 

“Are you all right, Bull?” Dorian nudges the dead Saarebas with his boot.

“The Iron Bull is just fine.” And he is, looking over the carnage with a hint of pride. “When this is over, drinks are on me. Probably a lot of ‘em.”

He pulls her close, plants a kiss on her head. “So, boss. We gonna fight the dragon or what?”

She leans into him, left hand balled into a fist. "Love you, Bull. Let's go."


	24. Solas

_If you must live, darling one_

_Just live._

 

\- Keaton Henson, _You_

 

Solas. Agent of Fen’Harel.

Bull wasn’t surprised, not really. It made sense that in the end, it would all come back to Solas. And she didn’t look surprised either. She’d been quiet, these last days, and not just with the pain. He could tell when she was thinking, puzzling something out.

“That’s stupid!” Sera scoffed. “It is, right? I mean, wait...oh, piss.”

Rhia stood tall, as much as an elf could, and stared down the Viddasala. There was steel in her voice.

“Whatever Solas is involved in, I am nobody’s puppet.”

“ _Panahedan_ , Inquisitor.” Goodbye. “If it is any consolation, Solas will not outlive you.”

They stood quiet, waiting for her instruction. There was a sheen of sweat on her brow, her lips tightly compressed with pain. She was beautiful.

She looked to Bull, her eyes pleading for understanding. “Whatever else, Solas was one of us. I won’t leave him for Viddasala.”

He nodded. Anything she needed, it was hers.

 

She cried out and the sound tore holes in him. For all his strength he was impotent, powerless to help her. She was on her knees in the water, sobbing, her body wracked with pain.

“That can't be healthy.” Dorian glanced at Bull, sympathy in his eyes. “Perhaps Solas can help.”

Sera snarled. “Hated his 'too-smart-for-you' pity before the whole agent-of-Fenny business. He better help. We're _owed_.”

Bull helped her to her feet, held her steady until the shaking stopped. Solas could help. Must help. He could see now the love she still carried for him. Couldn’t say for certain if she would throw everything at Solas’s feet if he asked her to. But better that she lived. Better that she survived without him, if at least she survived.

“Can you keep going, Kadan?”

She nodded.

 

  

She found herself alone on the other side of the eluvian, gasped as realised she was face to face with a Qunari spearman. No, she realised, a statue. Or not a statue. The courtyard was filled with them, warriors frozen in stone. Did he do all this?

Her heart kicked in her chest at the sound of a familiar lilting voice.

“Your forces have failed. Leave now, and tell the Qunari to trouble me no further.”

Dread and hope in her heart, she climbed the stairs.

The Viddasala charged with a cry of incoherent rage, spear raised. Then stopped, silent, stone.

 

_Fen’Harel bids you welcome. Rest, knowing the Dread Wolf guards you and his people guard this valley. In this place, you are free. In trusting us, you will never be bound again._

 

“Solas.”

He turned, scarcely daring to breathe. It had been too long since he had heard her voice, seen her dark eyes. Her hair was longer now, almost as long as the day he first saw her on the tiny cot in Haven, eyes closed and face pallid, holding all his hopes in her lifeless hand.

She cried out now, collapsed, her hand crackling with green energy. His gut twisted with remorse. He should not have let it advance this far.

He reached out, stilled the anchor.

She stood, her eyes raised to his, silent.

“That should give us more time.” He wished he could interpret her expression. Plea? Accusation? “I suspect you have questions.”

When she spoke again her voice was free of pain, of any emotion. “You're Fen'Harel. You're the Dread Wolf.”

“Well done.”

It was inadequate. She deserved more credit, although it should be unsurprising. She had always seen through him.

 

_Fen’Harel has been falsely named a god, but is as mortal as any of you. He takes no divine mantle, and asks that none be bestowed upon him. He leads only those who would help willingly. Let none be beholden but by choice._

 

 

He was the same, yet not. He stood casual, confident. Arrogant, that much at least was familiar. His shabby apostate garb was abandoned in favour of tailored robes over shining plate armour, a wolfskin draped over one shoulder.

He regarded her with cold impassivity, hands clasped behind his back.

“And now you know. What is the old Dalish curse? May the Dread Wolf take you?”

She couldn't resist a bitter laugh at the irony. “And so he did.”

His mask finally slipped, his eyes dark with pain. “I did not. I would not lay with you under false pretenses.”

 _What does that even mean?_ “You lied to me. I loved you. Did you really think I wouldn't have understood?”

She felt the lie even as she said it. She wouldn't have understood. Solas, the Dread Wolf, the subject of every cautionary tale in her childhood? It was beyond ridiculous. Incomprehensible.

“Ir abelas, vhenan.” He spoke softly.

“Tel’abelas.” In her anger she slipped into elvhen, _You're not sorry_. “If you care, give me truth.”

She knew most by now, but she needed to hear him say it. An end to the deceptions, the secrets that had driven them apart, had almost destroyed her.

He owed her this much.

_The gods, our Evanuris, claim divinity, yet they are naught but mortals powerful in magic who can die as you can. In this place, we teach those who join us to unravel their lies._

 

She heard his tale, offered no hint of her thoughts as he explained his actions so long ago, the sundering that had driven the magic from the world, stolen immortality from his people.

“I lay in dark and dreaming sleep while countless wars and ages passed. I woke still weak a year before I joined you.”

A chill day in the hills above Haven, his warm hand on her wrist. He remembered, and his eyes begged her to remember too. She had been finally awake, alive, her brown eyes warm. The start of his undoing. 

Those eyes were steady on him now, unwavering. "What about the future?"

 

_The brand of the Evanuris can be lifted from you, that all may know you oppose their cruelties. None here are slaves. All are under our protection. All may choose to fight._

 

"My people fell for what I did to strike the Evanuris down, but still some hope remains for restoration.”

My people, never our people. _I do not consider myself to have much in common with the elves._

His voice was calm even as his words horrified her. “I will save the elven people, even if it means this world must die.”

So that was his plan, to tear down the Veil? Wasn't that what they had fought so hard to remedy? Holes in the Veil spilling demons into their world, sowing terror and chaos? Who were these elven people he would save, if his actions would bring death and destruction to all the world?

_You're real, and it means everyone could be real. It changes everything, but it can't._

“Solas, whatever you want, this world dying is not the answer!” He couldn't want this. She was reduced once more to pleading with him, _Don't._

 

_Beware the forms of Fen'Harel! The Dread Wolf comes in humble guises, a wanderer who knows much of the people and their spirits. He will offer advice that seems fair, but turns slowly to poison._

 

“Not a good answer, no. Sometimes terrible choices are all that remain.” It was a weak response, he knew, unworthy of her.

He would have explained further, wished he could help her understand. But her insight had always been discomfiting. It would be easy to reveal too much.

She looked now at her hand, pulsing green. “There's still the matter of the anchor. It's getting worse.”

There, at least, he could help. “I know, vhenan. And we are running out of time.”

 

 

The pain returned with a new fervour, tore an unearthly shriek from her lungs. She bent over, heaving, fell once more on her knees.

He crouched before her.

“The mark will eventually kill you.” He spoke matter-of-factly, oddly detached. “Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you...at least for now.”

Rage and desperation flared in her. “You don’t have to destroy this world. I’ll prove it to you!”

His voice when he answered was filled with sorrow. “I will treasure the chance to be wrong once again, vhenan.”

The anchor flared again and she screamed. Her arm, her entire body was aflame.

She could barely hear him through the fog of agony. Perhaps she imagined his words. “My love.”

It should have felt like a betrayal, his lips on hers. But his kiss carried the lightness of unreality, the weight of destiny. For those few seconds her pain was lifted and she could believe herself once more in love, loved, by him.

“I will never forget you.”

The decay was arrested, although below the elbow her arm still burned. It seemed as though the anchor floated, disintegrated before her eyes, like the spirit of Wisdom so long ago.

And like that day long ago, and so many times since, she watched him depart.

She knelt, still shaking with the pain, her head spinning. At last she felt strong hands lifting her, warm skin enfolding her, before she fell into darkness.

 

Her throat was dry, her eyes gritty. If she wasn't alive, the afterlife was distinctly unimpressive. But she was tucked into clean sheets, and Bull’s comforting silhouette loomed above her.

“Kadan,” she croaked, and he smiled, smoothed her hair back from her face.

The anchor. She lifted her hand, but there was only air. Her left arm ended in a neat bandage above the elbow.

She looked to Bull, his face lined with concern. He raised his own hand. “Trying to one-up me, Kadan?” He waggled his fingers, the last two foreshortened by a Tal-Vashoth greataxe.

Weakly she reached with her remaining hand, traced her fingers over his eye patch. “Let me get my eye poked out, then we can talk.”

He stroked her cheek. “It's good to have you back, boss. We weren't so sure you were gonna make it.”

Her lips twitched in a smile. “Of course I made it. I had a promise to keep.”

 

Rhia sometimes came awake from dreams in which her lover watched her sadly from across an endless distance. If they were more than simple dreams she could not say, for every time she reached for him, he vanished into nothing.

Once she awoke she would turn, her fingers seeking a solid presence, a warm body next to hers. When she found him he would grumble gently, half-asleep, and draw her close to him until she slept again, contented even with that little frown on her face.

Still she searched, and dreamed, and waited, for a way to change the Dread Wolf's heart.


End file.
